LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


THE 


PHILADELPHIA   BOOK; 


oa 


SPECIMENS 


METROPOLITAN    LITERATURE. 


The  Residence  of  William  Penn  in  the  year  1700. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
KEY  &  BIDDLE,  23  MINOR  STREET. 

1836. 

LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


Philadelphia : 

T.  K.  &  P.  G.  Collins,  Printers, 
No.  1,  Ledge  Alley. 


CONTENTS. 


VAGE. 

Philadelphia  in  1732. — Peter  S.  Duponceau,      .           .           .           .           .  "  13 

Reflections  in  Solitude. — Samuel  Ewing,           .....  18 

Jack  and  Gill,  a  Mock  Criticism.— Joseph  Dennie,                 ...  20 

The  Indian  Student.— Philip  Freneau,              .....  30 

Specimen  of  a  Collegiate  Examination.— Francis  Hopkinson,          .           .  33 

Parodies  on  Romeo's  Description  of  an  Apothecary. — Samuel  Ewing,       .  37 

Death  of  Anacreon. — Anonymous,           ......  39 

Mary  will  smile.  —  William  Cliffton, 45 

An  Adventure;  from  Inchiquin's  Letters.—  C  J-  Ingersoll,               .           .  tf 

Elegy  on  Thomas  Godfrey. — Nathaniel  Evans,           ....  53 

The  Adventure  of  a  Somnambulist.— C.  B.  Brown,     ....  56 

Hunting  Song.—  Robert  Wain,                  .            .            .            .            .            .  62 

Character  of  Tilghman. — Horace  Binney,          .....  63 

Borodino. —  Thomas  Fisher,          .......  68 

Madame  de  Stael.— Robert  Walsh,           .            .           .            .            .            .  72 

Summer,  Spring,  and  Autumn. — Frederick  S.  Eckard,            ...  77 

The  Fine  Arts. — Joseph  Hopkinson,        .           .        >    .            .            .            .  79 

The  Indian  Summer. — James  McHenry,            .            .            ...  87 

Claims  of  the  Greeks.— Dr.  Bedell,        ......  89 

The  Indian  Boy.— S.  J.  Smith,                ......  92 

The  Bearer  of  Despatches. — Tames  Hall,           .....  96 

Fancy. — Thomas  Godfrey,            .......  108 

Retreat  of  the  Americans  from  Long  Island. — Alexander  Oraydon,             .  109 

Reflections  of  a  Recluse.— John  E.  Hall,           .....  118 

Description  of  a  Snake  Fight.— John  Dickinson,          ....  121 

Music  at  Midnight. — Oeorge  R.  Ingersoll,         .....  124 

Claims  of  the  Dramatic  Profession. — Matthew  Carey,            .            .            .  127 

English  Newspapers. — Richard  Rush,               .....  133 

Childhood.—  W.  H.  Furness 140 

Education.— John  Sergeant,         .......  142 

Saul's  Last  Day.— Dr.  R.  M.  Bird,        ......  147 

The  True  American  Statesman. — Nicholas  Biddle,                .            .            .  151 

The  Dead  Soldier.— Henry  D.  Bird,       ......  159 

Prediction.— Richard  Penn  Smith,           ......  162 

Suffolk's  Soliloquy.— D.  P.  Brown,        .  +  .  .  ,183 

Misrepresentations  of  America. — J.  W.  Williams,      ....  185 

Epistle  to  Gifford—  William  Clifton,      ....  .193 

Female  Education.— Dr.  Benjamin  Rush,         ...  .198 

Lines  on  seeing  an  old  copy  of  Thomas  More's  Miscellaneous  Latin  Poems 

drilled  through  by  Worms.—  J.  C  Snowden,      ....  201 


IV  CONTENTS. 

VAQB. 

The  Pestilence  ofl793.— C.  B.  Brown, 204 

Monody.— Morton  MMichael 209 

The  Expression  of  Speech.—  Dr.  James  Rush,              ....  212 

Newstead  Abbey.— H.  D.  Oilpin,           ......  216 

Poetry.— E.  Burke  Fisher,            .......  218 

The  Blue  Bird.—  Alexander  Wilson, 221 

Henry  Mac  Kenzie.—  W.  R.  Johnson,                 .....  223 

Love  Asleep. — T.  JV.  Barker 229 

The  Set  of  Chin  a.— Miss  Leslie, 236 

A  Midnight  Meditation.—  John  D.  Oodman,                ....  250 

Benjamin  West.— R.  M.  Walsh, 252 

The  Humming  Bird.—  Alexander  Wilson,           .....  257 

Oratory.— G.  M.  Wharton 258 

Stanzas.—/.  C.  Snowden,               ...            ;            ...  262 

The  Ice  Island.—  Dr.  R.  M.  Bird, 264 

The  Philosophy  of  Whist.— C.  W.  Thomson,  .  .  .275 

Reminiscences  of  Philadelphia.— Mrs.  Sarah  Halt,     .  .  .  .278 

The  Mermaid's  Song  to  the  "  Hornet."— tf.  S.  Gibson,          ...  288 

The  Waywardness  of  Genius. — Stephen  Simpson,       ....  290 
Lines  on  a  Blind  Boy,  solicting  charity,  by  playing  on  his  flute — R.  T- 

Conrad,          .........  296 

Settlers  of  Pennsylvania.— Peter  MCall, 298 

Sunday  Morning.— </.  K.  Mitchell,          ......  302 

The  South  of  France.— Dr.  Togno,         .  .  .  .  .  .305 

Cape  May—  W.  B.  Tappan 314 

American  Criticism.— B.  H.  Coates,       ......  316 

The  Genius  of  Poetry. —  T.H.Stockton,            .....  323 

The  Wissahiccon.— B.  Matthias,            ......  325 

Canzonet. — C.  C.  Conwell,           .......  337 

Sagitto,  the  Warrior  of  the  Washpelong.—  Morris  Mattson,             .           .  339 

The  Broken  Hearted.— Robert  Morris,              .                       ...  348 

Pennsylvania  History.— J.  R.  Tyson,    ......  350 

Stanzas.— S.  L  Fairfield,              .            .            .            .            .  353 

The  Vision  of  Efeta.— Owen  Stover,       ......  355 

The  Death  of  Lafayette.— T1.  A.  Worrall,         .....  361 

Philadelphians.— W.  H.  Davidson,         .                       ....  364 

Chamomile  Tea.— David  P.  Brown,       ......  368 

The  Rainbow  and  the  Cross. — Joseph  R.  Chandler,     .           .           ...  370 

Retrospection. —  William  D.  Baker,         ......  373 

A  Contrast.—  W.  G.  Clark,  378 


THE 


PHILADELPHIA    BOOK 


BY  PETER  S.  DUPONCEAU. 


HER  population  at  that  time  is  supposed  to  have  amount 
ed  to  about  ten  thousand  inhabitants.  The  buildings 
parallel  to  the  Delaware  must  have  extended  to  Fourth 
street,  and  probably  beyond  it;  history  mentions  a  tavern 
situated  at  the  corner  of  Third  street  at  an  earlier  date. 
The  northern  parts  of  the  town  were  chiefly  inhabited  by 
Germans.  The  streets  were  more  or  less  filled  with 
houses,  which  at  that  time  occupied  more  ground  than 
they  do  at  present,  many  of  them  having  large  yards  and 
gardens,  as  well  as  back  buildings;  for  the  fashion  of  hav 
ing  kitchens  under  ground  had  not  yet  been  adopted:  nor 
as  the  city  advanced  towards  the  west,  were  the  buildings 
so  compact  as  they  are  at  present  Christ  church  existed 
as  it  now  stands,  except  the  steeple,  of  which  the  founda 
tion  only  was  laid.  The  Presbyterian  church  in  High 
street,  which  was  called  Buttonwood,  and  was  pulled  down 
not  many  years  ago,  had  existed  nearly  thirty  years,  as 
well  as  the  Swedish  church,  which  was  of  an  older  date, 
2 


14  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

and  is  still  standing.  The  Friends  had  their  meeting 
houses,  but  these  were  plain  buildings  which  did  not  at 
tract  attention.  They  had  also  their  lovely  alms-house  in 
Walnut  street,  still  existing  and  reminding  us  of  an  east 
ern  edifice  by  the  garden  in  the  middle  of  the  area,  sur 
rounded  with  modest  but  comfortable  dwellings.  The 
old  Court  House  in  Market  street,  once  called  the  Great 
Town  House,  now  in  the  possession  of  the  watchmen  and 
clerks  of  the  markets,  had  had  more  than  twenty  years' 
existence;  and  the  prison,  with  a  work-house  annexed  to 
it,  was  situated  at  the  corner  of  Third  and  High  streets, 
to  which  the  markets  then  extended.  The  immortal 
State  House  was  in  a  course  of  building,  but  was  not  fin 
ished  until  the  year  1735.  Meanwhlie,  the  legislature  of 
the  province  held  its  sittings  in  private  houses.  Between 
the  Schuylkill  and  the  improved  parts  of  the  town,  there 
were  gentlemen's  country  seats,  and  tracts  of  woodland, 
some  of  which  existed  so  late  as  1777,  when  the  British 
took  possession  of  our  city,  and  cut  down  all  the  trees  to 
serve  as  fuel  for  themselves  and  their  army. 

Such  was  the  external  appearance  of  our  noble  city  in 
the  year  1732.  Peace  and  concord  reigned  within  it, 
under  the  mild  and  wise  administration  of  Governor  Gor 
don,  who  had  succeeded  Sir  William  Keith.  Our  illus 
trious  founder  had  now  been  dead  fourteen  years,  but  his 
spirit  had  not  forsaken  us.  His  afile  and  faithful  secretary, 
Logan,  still  had  considerable  influence  in  the  affairs  of  the 
government.  The  manners  of  the  people  were  simple, 
their  morals  pure,  and  literature  and  science  were  held  in 
deserved  esteem.  Men  of  genius  already  appeared  whose 
names  were  destined  to  go  to  posterity. 

Observe  that  young  man  whom  you  see  walking  along 
Second  street,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  ground  and  his  mind 
absorbed  in  contemplation  His  name  is  Anthony  Bene- 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  15 

zet.  He  is  a  native  of  France  and  a  member  of  the  So 
ciety  of  Friends.  He  resides  at  Germantown,  where  his 
time  is  devoted  to  the  instruction  of  youth.  Though  only 
nineteen  years  of  age,  and  though  he  has  been  but  one 
year  in  this  country,  he  is  already  distinguished  for  his 
sincere  piety,  his  Christian  humility,  and  above  all,  for  his 
ardent  desire  for  the  happiness  of  mankind.  He  has  seen 
with  horror  and  indignation  the  effects  of  slavery,  at  this 
time  existing  in  Pennsylvania,  and  is  now  meditating  a 
plan  for  the  emancipation  of  the  African  race.  To  that 
important  object  he  will  devote  the  unremitting  labours 
of  a  long  and  useful  life;  he  will  live  to  see  those  labours 
crowned  with  success,  and  after  his  death  his  name  will 
long  be  held  in  veneration  by  successive  generations :  he 
will  be  numbered  among  the  benefactors  of  mankind. 

Not  far  from  him  you  see  a  plain  looking  man  dressed 
in  a  grayish  jacket,  carrying  in  one  hand  a  pot  of  white 
paint,  and  in  the  other  a  painter's  brush.  He  is  a  poor 
glazier  by  trade,  and  his  name  is  Thomas  Godfrey.  Don't 
trust  to  his  mean  appearance,  he  is  one  of  nature's  own 
nobility.  He  is  a  profound  mathematician,  and  for  his 
learning  is  indebted  to  himself  alone.  This  evening,  after 
his  work  is  done,  he  will  be  studying  the  Principia  of  the 
great  Newton,  for  the  understanding  of  which  he  has 
taught  himself  the  Latin  language,  having  had  no  other 
than  the  most  common  school  education.  By  the  mere 
force  of  his  genius,  he  has  made  an  improvement  in  the 
quadrant  commonly  used  for  taking  altitudes  at  sea,  which 
will  be  adopted  by  all  the  maritime  nations,  and  be  the 
means  of  rendering  navigation  much  easier  and  safer  than 
it  was  before.  His  friend  and  patron,  Logan,  has  commu 
nicated  this  discovery  to  a  person  in  London,  who,  by  his 
neglect,  will  suffer  another  to  claim  and  obtain  the  hon 
our  of  the  invention;  so  that  the  improved  instrument, 


16  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

which  should  be  called  Godfrey's  will  be  known  by  the 
name  of  Hadley's  Quadrant.  Americans  one  day  will 
vindicate  the  honour  of  their  ingenious  countryman. 

Inferior,  but  not  mean  geniuses  are  also  to  be  found  in 
our  rising  city.  I  see  Nicholas  Scull,  the  geographer,  who 
published  the  first  correct  map  of  Pennsylvania;  I  see 
Ralph,  who,  though  he  will  never  reach  a  very  high  grade, 
will,  nevertheless,  be  distinguished  in  England  as  a  poet, 
an  historian,  and  a  political  writer.  He  was  unjustly  treat 
ed  by  the  illustrious  Pope,  whose  vanity  would  not  suf 
fer  the  little  birds  to  sing,  and  showed  jealousy  when  he 
ought  to  have  bestowed  encouragement  and  kindness. 
Others  of  lesser  note  might  be  named,  who,  not  wanting 
in  talents,  left  nothing  behind  them  by  which  to  be  re 
membered  by  posterity. 

But  who  is  he  whom  I  see  advancing  with  a  brisk  but 
steady  pace,  and  who  seems  to  be  observing  every  thing 
as  he  goes  along  ?  His  dress  is  simple,  and  may  even  be 
called  plain;  yet  you  can  see  he  is  no  common  man:  ge 
nius  flashes  from  his  eyes,  and  intelligence  beams  in  his 
countenance.  He  is  the  printer  of  the  Pennsylvania  Ga 
zette,  at  the  new  printing  office,  near  the  market.  He 
came  here  a  poor  lad  from  Boston,  his  native  place,  only 
a  few  years  ago;  went  to  England,  where  he  perfected 
himself  in  his  trade,  then  returned  here,  and  after  serving 
some  time  as  a  journeyman  to  one  Keimer,  and  afterwards 
working  in  partnership  with  one  Meredith,  he  has  lately 
set  up  for  himself,  and  his  paper  is  fast  getting  the  start 
of  the  old  weekly  Mercury,  published  by  Andrew  Brad 
ford.  The  people  are  pleased  with  the  moral  pieces  of 
his  composition,  with  which  his  columns  are  frequently 
enriched.  He  gives  them  excellent  advice,  as  well  as  in 
the  Almanac  which  he  publishes  every  year  under  the 
title  of  Poor  Richard,  the  only  Almanac,  perhaps,  that 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  17 

will  ever  be  famed  in  after  times.     Young  Franklin,  for 
he  is  no  more  than  twenty-six  years  old,  is  very  popular 
among  the  citizens,  and  Philadelphia  is  already  indebted 
to  him  for  some  valuable  establishments.     He  has  found 
ed  a  public  library,  which  will  increase  with  time  and 
be  an  ornament  to  our  city;  he  has,  moreover,  collected 
all  the  young  men  of  talents  that  he  could  find,  and  with 
them  formed  an  association  for  the  promotion  of  useful 
knowledge,  which  will  last  more  than  forty  years  under 
the  modest  name  of  the  Junto,  and  afterwards  uniting  it 
self  with  another  body  of  men  assembled  for  a  similar 
purpose,  will  be  known  through  the  world  as  an  Amer 
ican  Philosophical  Society,  of  which  (though  at  that  time 
residing  in  Europe)  he  will  be  chosen  the  first  president. 
So  much  he  has  already  done,  but  his  career  is  not  run. 
He  will  be  the  first  philosopher  and  statesman  of  his  age 
— a  new  but  guiltless  Prometheus,  he  will  steal  the  celes 
tial  fire  and  direct  the  forked  lightning  at  his  will.     Eu 
rope  will  admire  his  talents,  and  shower  upon  him  her 
scientific  and  literary  laurels.     As  a  statesman  and  a  pa 
triot  he  will  not  be  less  distinguished.     At  the  end  of  this 
half  century  we  shall  see  him  full  of  years  and  honours, 
numbered  among  the  greatest  men  of  our  country,  and 
his  name  will  be  handed  down  to  posterity  by  the  side  of 
those  of  William  Penn  and  of  Washington, 


18  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 


BY  SAMUEL  EWING. 


How  sweet  the  south-wind  plays  around  my  brow!  — 

How  merciful  in  God,  to  temper  thus, 

The  burning  sunbeam,  with  the  pooling  breeze! 

Man  marks,  ungrateful,  with  a  frowning  eye 

The  transitory  storm,  where  Mercy  rides, 

To  dissipate  the  idle  dreams  of  life, 

While  skies  unclouded  and  the  dewy  breeze, 

Nor  warm  his  heart,  nor  bend  his  stubborn  knee! 

He  notes  with  scowling  and  with  angry  eye, 

The  man,  who  holds  a  pittance  from  his  kind, 

Yet  censures  not  himself,  while  he  denies 

His  thanks  to  God,  that  but  increase  his  stores. 

Oh!  my  heart  saddens,  when  it  thinks  on  man. 

How  gay  yon  plough-boy  whistling  to  his  team, 

As  slowly  plodding  o'er  the  broken  earth, 

He  tells  to  air,  the  furrows  he  has  made! 

The  morn  of  life  is  thine!  poor,  simple  lad!  . 

And  mild  and  sweet  the  breeze,  that  fans  thy  locks!  — 

Yet  ere  another  moon,  the  storm  may  howl, 

And  rudely  beat  on  thy  unsheltered  head. 

To  day  the  pine-clad  mountains  bound  thy  hopes, 

Thy  ev'ry  wish:  but  soon  the  villain's  smile 

May  poison  every  source  of  pure  delight. 

Thy  ear  may  close  upon  the  village  bell, 

That  now  on  Sabbath  leads  thee  to  thy  God  — 

Thy  little  feet  may  then  beguile  thee  far 

From  every  simple  scene  thy  home  had  known, 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  19 

To  wander  thro'  the  wild.     From  every  storm, 
Unhous'd,  unsheltered,  from  thy  God  estrang'd, 
Thy  heart  desponding,  and  thy  soul  deprest, 
Experience  then  may  whisper  in  thine  ear, 
To  seek  thy  parent,  as  thy  first,  best  friend. 
So  have  I  mark'd  the  floweret  by  the  hedge, 
Unfold  its  beauties  to  the  morning  sun, 
To  hail  the  stranger  as  the  source  of  life, 
And,  heedless,  shake  the  vital  dews  away, 
Till  night  steal  on,  and  shroud  its  withered  stalk! 
And  leaves,  wild  scattered  by  the  western  blast! 
Yet  would  I  not  that  man  within  his  shell 
Should,  snail-like,  shrink,  and  shun  the  social  joy: 
If  he  pursue  the  beaten  path  of  life, 
Though  on  his  eye,  no  hot-bed  blossoms  glare, 
To  fascinate  his  artificial  sense, 
Yet  no  thorns  tear  him,  and  no  weeds  obstruct: 
But  if,  with  devious  step,  he  turn  aside, 
Where  Fancy  lures  him,  with  her  magic  wand, 
To  sip  the  freshness  of  the  violet's  lips, 
He  may  not  murmur,  if  the  briars  wound; 
His  way  was  open, — unrestrain'd  his  will. 


20  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 


BY  JOSEPH  DXMNIE. 


AMONG  critical  writers,  it  is  a  common  remark,  that 
the  fashion  of  the  times  has  often  given  a  temporary 
reputation  to  performances  of  very  little  merit,  and  neg 
lected  those  much  more  deserving  of  applause.  This 
circumstance  renders  it  necessary  that  some  person  of  suf 
ficient  sagacity  to  discover  and  to  describe  what  is  beauti 
ful,  and  so  impartial  as  to  disregard  vulgar  prejudices, 
should  guide  the  public  taste,  and  raise  merit  from  obscu 
rity.  Without  arrogating  to  myself  these  qualities,  I  shall 
endeavour  to  introduce  to  the  nation  a  work,  which,  though 
of  considerable  elegance,  has  been  strangely  overlooked 
by  the  generality  of  the  world.  The  performance  to 
which  I  allude,  has  never  enjoyed  that  celebrity  to  which 
it  is  entitled,  but  it  has  of  late  fallen  into  disrepute,  chiefly 
from  the  simplicity  of  its  style,  which  in  this  age  of  lux 
urious  refinement,  is  deemed  only  a  secondary  beauty, 
and  from  its  being  the  favourite  of  the  young,  who  can 
relish,  without  being  able  to  illustrate,  its  excellence.  I 
rejoice  that  it  has  fallen  to  my  lot  to  rescue  from  neglect 
this  inimitable  poem;  for,  whatever  may  be  my  diffi 
dence,  as  I  shall  pursue  the  manner  of  the  most  eminent 
critics,  it  is  scarcely  possible  to  err.  The  fastidious  reader 
will  doubtless  smile  when  he  is  informed  that  the  work, 
thus  highly  praised,  is  a  poem  consisting  only  of  four  lines; 
but  as  there  is  no  reason  why  a  poet  should  be  restricted  in 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  21 

his  number  of  verses,  as  it  would  be  a  very  sad  misfor 
tune  if  every  rhymer  were  obliged  to  write  a  long  as  well 
as  a  bad  poem;  and  more  particularly  as  these  verses  con 
tain  more  beauties  than  we  often  find  in  a  poem  of  four 
thousand,  all  objections  to  its  brevity  should  cease.  I  must 
at  the  same  time  acknowledge  that  at  first  I  doubted  in 
what  class  of  poetry  it  should  be  arranged.  Its  extreme 
shortness,  and  its  uncommon  metre,  seemed  to  degrade  it 
into  a  ballad,  but  its  interesting  subject,  its  unity  of  plan, 
and,  above  all,  its  having  a  beginning,  middle,  and  an  end, 
decide  its  claim  to  the  epic  rank.  I  shall  now  proceed  with 
the  candour,  though  not  with  the  acuteness,  of  a  good  critic, 
to  analyze  and  display  its  various  excellences. 
The  opening  of  the  poem  is  singularly  beautiful: 

Jack  and  GUI. 

The  first  duty  of  the  poet  is  to  introduce  his  subject,  and 
there  is  no  part  of  poetry  more  difficult.  We  are  told  by 
the  great  critic  of  antiquity  that  we  should  avoid  begin 
ning  "  ab  ovo,"  but  go  into  the  business  at  once.  Here 
our  author  is  very  happy:  for  instead  af  telling  us,  as  an 
ordinary  writer  would  have  done,  who  were  the  ancestors 
of  Jack  and  Gill,  that  the  grandfather  of  Jack  was  a  re 
spectable  farmer,  that  his  mother  kept  a  tavern  at  the  sign 
of  the  Blue  Bear;  and  that  GilPs  father  was  a  justice  of  the 
peace,  (once  of  the  quorum),  together  with  a  catalogue  of 
uncles  and  aunts,  he  introduces  them  to  us  at  once  in  their 
proper  persons.  I  cannot  help  accounting  it,  too,  as  a  cir 
cumstance  honourable  to  the  genius  of  the  poet,  that  he 
does  not  in  his  opening  call  upon  the  muse.  This  is  an 
error  into  which  Homer  and  almost  all  the  epic  writers 
after  him  have  fallen;  since  by  thus  stating  their  case  to  the 
muse,  and  desiring  her  to  come  to  their  assistance,  they 


22  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

necessarily  presupposed  that  she  was  absent,  whereas  there 
can  be  no  surer  sign  of  inspiration  than  for  a  muse  to  come 
unasked.  The  choice  too  of  names  is  not  unworthy  of  con 
sideration.  It  would  doubtless  have  contributed  to  the 
splendor  of  the  poem  to  have  endowed  the  heroes  with 
long  and  sounding  titles,  which,  by  dazzling  the  eyes  of 
the  reader,  might  prevent  an  examination  of  the  work 
itself.  These  adventitious  ornaments  are  justly  disregard 
ed  by  our  author,  who  by  giving  us  plain  Jack  and  Gill 
has  disdained  to  rely  on  extrinsic  support.  In  the  very 
choice  of  appellations  he  is  however  judicious.  Had  he, 
for  instance,  called  the  first  character  John,  he  might  have 
given  him  more  dignity,  but  he  would  not  so  well  harmo 
nize  with  his  neighbour,  to  whom  in  the  course  of  the. 
work,  it  will  appear  he  must  necessarily  be  joined.  I 
know  it  may  be  said,  that  the  contraction  of  names  sa 
vours  too  much  of  familiarity,  and  the  lovers  of  proverbs 
may  tell  us  that  too  much  familiarity  breeds  contempt;  the 
learned,  too,  may  observe,  that  Prince  Henry  somewhere 
exclaims  "  Here  comes  lean  Jack,  here  comes  bare  bones," 
and  that  the  association  of  the  two  ideas  detracts  much  from 
the  respectability  of  the  former.  Disregarding  these  ca 
vils,  I  cannot  but  remark  that  the  lovers  of  abrupt  open 
ings,  as  in  the  Bard,  must  not  deny  their  praise  to  the 
vivacity,  with  which  Jack  breaks  in  upon  us. 

The  personages  being  now  seen,  their  situation  is  next 
to  be  discovered.  Of  this  we  are  immediately  informed 
in  the  subsequent  line,  when  we  are  told, 

Jack  and  Gill 
Went  up  a  hill. 

Here  the  imagery  is  distinct,  yet  the  description  concise. 
We  instantly  figure  to  ourselves  the  two  persons  travel- 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  23 

ling  up  an  ascent,  which  we  may  accomodate  to  our  own 
ideas  of  declivity,  barrenness,  rockiness,  sandiness,  &c.  all 
which,  as  they  exercise  the  imagination,  are  beauties  of  a 
high  order.  The  reader  will  pardon  my  presumption,  if 
I  here  attempt  to  broach  a  new  principle  which  no  critic, 
with  whom  I  am  acquainted,  has  ever  mentioned.  It  is 
this,  that  poetic  beauties  may  be  divided  into  negative 
and  positive,  the  former  consisting  of  mere  absence  of 
fault,  the  latter  in  the  presence  of  excellence;  the  first  of 
an  inferior  order,  but  requiring  considerable  critical  acu 
men  to  discover  them,  the  latter  of  a  higher  rank,  but 
obvious  to  the  meanest  capacity.  To  apply  the  principle 
in  this  case,  the  poet  meant  to  inform  us  that  two  persons 
were  going  up  a  hill.  Now  the  act  of  going  up  a  hill, 
although  Locke  would  pronounce  it  a  very  complex  idea 
comprehending  person,  rising  ground,  trees,  &c.  &c.  is  an 
operation  so  simple  as  to  need  no  description.  Had  the 
poet,  therefore,  told  us  how  the  two  heroes  went  up, 
whether  in  a  cart  or  a  wagon,  and  entered  into  the  thou 
sand  particulars  which  the  subject  involves,  they  would 
have  been  tedious,  because  superfluous.  The  omission 
of  these  little  incidents,  and  telling  us  simply  that  they 
went  up  the  hill,  no  matter  how,  is  a  very  high  negative 
beauty.  These  considerations  may  furnish  us  with  the 
means  of  deciding  a  controversy,  arising  from  a  variation 
in  the  manuscripts;  some  of  which  have  it  a  hill,  and 
others  the  hill,  for  as  the  description  is  in  no  other  part 
local,  I  incline  to  the  former  reading.  It  has,  indeed,  been 
suggested  that  the  hill  here  mentioned  was  Parnassus,  and 
that  the  two  persons  are  two  poets,  who,  having  overload 
ed  Pegasus,  the  poor  jaded  creature  was  obliged  to  stop 
at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  whilst  they  ascended  for  water  to 
recruit  him.  This  interpretation,  it  is  true,  derives  some 
countenance  from  the  consideration  that  Jack  and  Gill 


24  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

were  in  reality,  as  will  appear  in  the  course  of  the  poem, 
going  to  draw  water,  and  that  there  was  such  a  place  as 
Hippocrene,  that  is  a  horsepond,  at  the  top  of  the  hill; 
but,  on  the  whole,  I  think  the  text,  as  I  have  adopted  it, 
to  be  the  better  reading. 

Having  ascertained  the  names  and  conditions  of  the 
parties,  the  reader  becomes  naturally  inquisitive  into  their 
employment,  and  wishes  to  know  whether  their  occupa 
tion  is  worthy  of  them.  This  laudable  curiosity  is  abun 
dantly  gratified  in  the  succeeding  lines;  for 


Jack  aud  Gill 
Went  up  a  hill 
To  fetch  a  bucket  of  water. 


Here  we  behold  the  plan  gradually  unfolding,  a  new 
scene  opens  to  our  view,  and  the  description  is  exceedingly 
beautiful.  We  now  discover  their  object,  which  we  were 
before  left  to  conjecture.  We  see  the  two  friends,  like 
Py lades  and  Orestes,  assisting  and  cheering  each  other 
in  their  labours,  gaily  ascending  the  hill,  eager  to  arrive 
at  the  summit,  and  to — fill  their  bucket. — Here  too  is  a 
new  elegance.  Our  acute  author  could  not  but  observe 
the  necessity  of  machinery,  which  has  been  so  much  com 
mended  by  critics,  and  admired  by  readers.  Instead, 
however,  of  introducing  a  host  of  gods  and  godesses,  who 
might  have  only  impeded  the  journey  of  his  heroes,  by 
the  intervention  of  the  bucket,  which  is,  as  it  ought  to 
be,  simple  and  conducive  to  the  progress  of  the  poem,  he 
has  considerably  improved  on  the  ancient  plan.  In  the 
management  of  it  also  he  has  shown  much  judgment,  by 
making  the  influence  of  the  machinery  and  the  subject 
reciprocal:  for  while  the  utensil  carries  on  the  heroes,  it 
is  itself  carried  on  by  them.  In  this  part,  too,  we  have  a 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  25 

deficiency  supplied,  to  wit,  the  knowledge  of  their  rela 
tionship,  which  as  it  would  have  encumbered  the  opening, 
was  reserved  for  this  place.  Even  now  there  is  some  un 
certainty  whether  they  were  related  by  the  ties  of  consan 
guinity;  but  we  may  rest  assured  they  were  friends,  for 
they  did  join  in  carrying  the  instrument;  they  must,  from 
their  proximity  of  situation,  have  been  amicably  dispo 
sed,  and  if  one  alone  carried  the  utensil,  it  exhibits  an 
amiable  assumption  of  the  whole  labour.  The  only  ob 
jection  to  this  opinion  is  an  old  adage,  "  Bonus  dux  bo- 
num  facit  militem,"  which  has  been  translated  "  A  good 
Jack  makes  a  good  Gill,"  thereby  intimating  a  superiority 
in  the  former.  If  such  was  the  case,  it  seems  the  poet  wish 
ed  to  show  his  hero  in  retirement,  and  convince  the  world, 
that,  however  illustrious  he  might  be,  he  did  not  despise 
manual  labour.  It  has  also  been  objected,  (for  every  Homer 
has  his  Zoilus,)  that  their  employment  is  not  sufficiently 
dignified  for  epic  poetry;  but,  in  answer  to  this,  it  must  be 
remarked,  that  it  was  the  opinion  of  Socrates,  and  many 
other  philosophers,  that  beauty  should  be  estimated  by 
utility,  and  surely  the  purpose  of  the  heroes  must  have 
been  beneficial.  They  ascended  the  rugged  mountain  to 
draw  water,  and  drawing  water  is  certainly  more  condu 
cive  to  human  happiness  than  drawing  blood,  as  do  the 
boasted  heroes  of  the  Iliad,  or  roving  on  the  ocean,  and 
invading  other  men's  property,  as  did  the  pious  ^Eneas. 
Yes!  they  went  to  draw  water.  Interesting  scene!  It 
might  have  been  drawn  for  the  purpose  of  culinary  con 
sumption;  it  might  have  been  to  quench  the  thirst  of  the 
harmless  animals  who  relied  on  them  for  support;  it 
might  have  been  to  feed  a  sterile  soil,  and  to  revive 
the  drooping  plants,  which  they  raised  by  their  labours. 
Is  not  our  author  more  judicious  than  Apollonius,  who 
chooses  for  the  heroes  of  his  Argonautics  a  set  of  rascals, 
3 


26  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

undertaking  to  steal  a  sheep  skin?  And,  if  dignity  is  to 
be  considered,  is  not  drawing  water  a  circumstance  highly 
characteristic  of  antiquity?  Do  we  not  find  the  amiable 
Rebecca  busy  at  the  well — does  not  one  of  the  maidens 
in  the  Odyssey  delight  us  by  her  diligence  in  the  same 
situation,  and  has  not  a  learned  Dean  proved  that  it  was 
quite  fashionable  in  Peloponnesus? — Let  there  be  an  end 
to  such  frivolous  remarks.  But  the  descriptive  part  is 
now  finished,  and  the  author  hastens  to  the  catastrophe. 
At  what  part  of  the  mountain  the  well  was  situated,  what 
was  the  reason  of  the  sad  misfortune,  or  how  the  prudence 
of  Jack  forsook  him,  we  are  not  informed,  but  so,  alas!  it 
happened, 

Jack  fell  down- 
Unfortunate  John!  At  the  moment  when  he  was  nimbly, 
for  aught  we  know,  going  up  the  hill,  perhaps  at  the  mo 
ment  when  his  toils  were  to  cease,  and  he  had  filled  the 
bucket,  he  made  an  unfortunate  step,  his  centre  of  gravity, 
as  the  philosophers  would  say,  fell  beyond  his  base,  and 
he  tumbled.  The  extent  of  his  fall  does  not,  however, 
appear  until  the  next  line,  as  the  author  feared  to  over 
whelm  us  by  too  immediate  a  disclosure  of  his  whole  mis 
fortune.  Buoyed  by  hope,  we  suppose  his  affliction  not 
quite  remediless,  that  his  fall  is  an  accident  to  which  the 
way-farers  of  this  life  are  daily  liable,  and  we  anticipate 
his  immediate  rise  to  resume  his  labours.  But  how  are 
we  deceived  by  the  heart-rending  tale,  that 

Jack  fell  down 
And  broke  his  cro 


Nothing  now  remains  but  to  deplore  the  premature  fate 
of  the  unhappy  John.     The  mention  of  the  crown  has 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  27 

much  perplexed  the  commentators.  The  learned  Micro- 
philus,  in  the  513th  page  of  his  "  Cursory  Remarks"  on 
the  poem,  thinks  he  can  find  in  it  some  allusion  to  the 
story  of  Alfred,  who,  he  says,  is  known  to  have  lived 
during  his  concealment  in  a  mountainous  country,  and  as 
he  watched  the  cakes  on  the  fire,  might  have  been  sent  to 
bring  water.  But  his  acute  annotator,  Vandergruten,  has 
detected  the  fallacy  of  such  a  supposition,  though  he  falls 
into  an  equal  error  in  remarking  that  Jack  might  have 
carried  a  crown  or  a  half  crown  in  his  hand,  which  was 
fractured  in  the  fall.  My  learned  reader  will  doubtless 
agree  with  me  in  conjecturing  that  as  the  crown  is  often 
used  metaphorically  for  the  head,  and  as  that  part  is,  or 
without  any  disparagement  to  the  unfortunate  sufferer 
might  have  been,  the  heaviest,  it  was  really  his  pericra 
nium  which  sustained  the  damage.  Having  seen  the  fate 
of  Jack,  we  are  anxious  to  know  the  lot  of  his  compan 
ion.  Alas! 

And  Gill  came  tumbling  after. 

Here  the  distress  thickens  on  us.  Unable  to  support  the  loss 
of  his  friend,  he  followed  him,  determined  to  share  his 
disaster,  and  resolved,  that  as  they  had  gone  up  together, 
they  should  not  be  separated  as  they  came  down.* 

In  the  midst  of  our  afflictions,  let  us  not,  however,  be 
unmindful  of  the  poet's  merit,  which,  on  this  occasion, 
is  conspicuous.  He  evidently  seems  to  have  in  view  the 

*  There  is  something  so  tenderly  querimonious  in  the  silent  grief  and 
devotion  of  Gill,  something  which  so  reminds  us  of  the  soft  complaint  of 
the  hapless  sister  of  Dido,  that  it  must  delight  every  classical  reader. 

Comitemne  sororem 

Sprevisti  moriens?     Eadem  me  ad  fata  vocasses; 
Idem  ambas  ferro  dolor,  atque  eadem  hora  tulisset. 


28  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

excellent  observation  of  Adam  Smith,  that  our  sympathy 
arises  not  from  a  view  of  the  passion,  but  of  the  situa 
tion  which  excites  it.  Instead  of  unnecessary  lamenta 
tion,  he  gives  us  the  real  state  of  the  case;  avoiding,  at 
the  same  time,  that  minuteness  of  detail,  which  is  so  com 
mon  among  pathetic  poets,  and  which,  by  dividing  a  pas 
sion,  and  tearing  it  to  rags,  as  Shakspeare  says,  destroys  its 
force.  Thus,  when  Cowley  tells  us,  that  his  mistress  shed 
tears  enough  to  save  the  world  if  it  had  been  on  fire,  we 
immediately  think  of  a  house  on  fire,  ladders,  engines, 
crowds  of  people,  and  other  circumstances,  which  drive 
away  every  thing  like  feeling:  when  Pierre  is  describing 
the  legal  plunder  of  Jaffier's  house,  our  attention  is  divert 
ed  from  the  misery  of  Belvidera  to  the  goods  and  chattels  of 
him  the  said  Jaffier:  but  in  the  poem  before  us  the  author 
has  just  hit  the  dividing  line  between  the  extreme  concise 
ness  which  might  conceal  necessary  circumstances,  and  the 
prolixity  of  narration,  which  would  introduce  immaterial 
ones.  So  happy,  indeed,  is  the  account  of  Jack's  destruc 
tion,  that  had  a  physician  been  present,  and  informed  us  of 
the  exact  place  of  the  skull  which  received  the  hurt,  wheth 
er  it  was  the  occipitis,  or  which  of  the  ossa  bregmatis  that 
was  fractured,  or  what  part  of  the  lambdoidal  suture  was 
the  point  of  injury,  we  could  not  have  a  clearer  idea  of 
his  misfortune.  Of  the  bucket  we  are  told  nothing,  but 
as  it  is  probable  that  it  fell  with  its  supporters,  we  have  a 
scene  of  misery,  unequalled  in  the  whole  compass  of 
tragic  description.  Imagine  to  ourselves  Jack  rapidly 
descending,  perhaps  rolling  over  and  over  down  the 
mountain,  the  bucket,  as  the  lighter,  moving  along,  and 
pouring  forth  (if  it  had  been  filled)  its  liquid  stream,  Gill 
following  in  confusion,  with  a  quick  and  circular  and 
headlong  motion;  add  to  this  the  dust,  which  they  might 
have  collected  and  dispersed,  with  the  blood  which  must 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  29 

have  flowed  from  John's  head,  and  we  will  witness  a  ca 
tastrophe  highly  shocking,  and  feel  an  irresistible  im 
pulse  to  run  for  a  doctor.  The  sound,  too,  charmingly 
"  echoes  to  the  sense," 

Jack  fell  down 
And  broke  his  crown, 
And  Gill  came  tumbling  after. 

The  quick  succession  of  movements  is  indicated  by  an 
equally  rapid  motion  of  the  short  syllables,  and  in  the 
last  line  Gill  rolls  with  a  greater  sprightliness  and  viva 
city,  than  even  the  stone  of  Sisyphus. 

Having  expatiated  so  largely  on  its  particular  merits, 
let  us  conclude  by  a  brief  review  of  its  most  prominent 
beauties.  The  subject  is  the  Jail  of  men,  a  subject,  high, 
interesting,  worthy  of  a  poet :  the  heroes,  men  who  do 
not  commit  a  single  fault,  and  whose  misfortunes  are  to 
be  imputed,  not  to  indiscretion,  but  to  destiny.  To  the 
illustration  of  the  subject,  every  part  of  the  poem  con 
duces.  Attention  is  neither  wearied  by  multiplicity  of 
trivial  incidents,  nor  distracted  by  frequency  ot  digres 
sion.  The  poet  prudently  clipped  the  wings  of  imagina 
tion,  and  repressed  the  extravagance  of  metaphorical 
decoration.  All  is  simple,  plain,  consistent.  The  moral 
too,  that  part  without  which  poetry  is  useless  sound,  has 
not  escaped  the  view  of  the  poet.  When  we  behold  two 
young  men,  who  but  a  short  moment  before  stood  up  in 
all  the  pride  of  health,  suddenly  falling  down  a  hill,  how 
must  we  lament  the  instability  of  all  things! 


30  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 


©OT 10) 3BSSSTo 

BY  PHILIP  FRENKAU. 

FROM  Susquehanna's  farthest  springs, 
Where  savage  tribes  pursue  their  game, 
(His  blanket  tied  with  yellow  strings,) 
A  shepherd  of  the  forest  came. 

Not  long  before,  a  wandering  priest 
Expressed  his  wish,  with  visage  sad — 
"  Ah,  why  (he  cried)  in  Satan's  waste, 
Ah,  why  detain  so  fine  a  lad  ? 

"  In  white-man's  land  there  stands  a  town 
Where  learning  may  be  purchased  low — 
Exchange  his  blanket  for  a  gown, 
And  let  the  lad  to  college  go." — 

From  long  debate  the  council  rose, 
And,  viewing  Shalurrfs  tricks  with  joy, 
To  Cambridge  Hall,  o'er  wastes  of  snows, 
They  sent  the  copper-coloured  boy. 

One  generous  chief  a  bow  supplied, 
This  gave  a  shaft,  and  that  a  skin  ; 
The  feathers,  in  vermillion  dyed, 
Himself  did  from  a  turkey  win : 

Thus  dressed  so  gay,  he  took  his  way 
O'er  barren  hills,  alone,  alone  ! 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  31 

His  guide  a  star,  he  wandered  far, 
His  pillow  every  night  a  stone. 

At  last  he  came,  with  foot  so  lame, 
Where  learned  men  talk  heathen  Greek, 
And  Hebrew  lore  is  gabbled  o'er 
To  please  the  Muses, — twice  a  week. 

Awhile  he  writ,  awhile  he  read, 
Awhile  he  conned  their  grammar  rules — 
(An  Indian  savage  so  well  bred 
Great  credit  promised  to  the  schools.) 

Some  thought  he  would  in  law  excel. 
Some  said  in  physic  he  would  shine; 
And  one  that  knew  him,  passing  well, 
Beheld,  in  him,  a  sound  Divine. 

But  those  of  more  discerning  eye 
Even  then  could  other  prospects  show, 
And  saw  him  lay  his  Virgil  by 
To  wander  with  his  dearer  bow. 

The  tedious  hours  of  study  spent, 
The  heavy-moulded  lecture  done, 
He  to  the  woods  a  hunting  went, 
Through  lonely  wastes  he  walked,  he  run. 

No  mystic  wonders  fired  his  mind  ; 
He  sought  to  gain,  no  learned  degree, 
But  only  sense  enough  to  find 
The  squirrel  in  the  hollow  tree. 

The  shady  bank,  the  purling  stream, 
The  woody  wild  his  heart  possessed, 
The  dewy  lawn,  his  morning  dream 
In  fancy's  gayest  colours  dressed. 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

"  And  why  (he  cried)  did  I  forsake 
My  native  wood  for  gloomy  walls  ; 
The  silver  stream,  the  limpid  lake 
For  musty  books  and  college  halls  ? 

"  A  little  could  my  wants  supply — 
Can  wealth  and  honour  give  me  more  ; 
Or,  will  the  sylvan  god  deny 
The  humble  treat  he  gave  before  ? 

"  Let  seraphs  gain  the  bright  abode, 
And  heaven's  sublimest  mansions  see — 
I  only  bow  to  NATURE'S  GOD— 
The  land  of  shades  will  do  for  me. 

"  These  dreadful  secrets  of  the  sky 
Alarm  my  soul  with  chilling  fear — 
Do  planets  in  their  orbits  fly, 
And  is  the  earth,  indeed,  a  sphere  ? 

"  Let  planets  still  their  course  pursue, 
And  comets  to  the  CENTRE  run — 
In  HIM  my  faithful  friend  I  view, 
The  image  of  my  God — the  SUN. 

"  Where  Nature's  ancient  forests  grow, 
And  mingled  laurel  never  fades, 
My  heart  is  fixed ; — and  I  must  go 
To  die  among  my  native  shades." 

He  spoke,  and  to  the  western  springs, 
(His  gown  discharged,  his  money  spent, 
His  blanket  tied  with  yellow  strings,) 
The  shepherd  of  the  forest  went. 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  33 


BY  FRANCIS  HOPKINSON. 

METAPHYSICS. 

PROF.     What  is  a  salt-box  ? 

STU.     It  is  a  box  made  to  contain  salt. 

PROF.     How  is  it  divided  ? 

STU.     Into  a  salt-box,  and  a  box  of  salt. 

PROF.     Very  well ! — show  the  distinction. 

STU.  A  salt-box  may  be  where  there  is  no  salt ;  but 
salt  is  absolutely  necessary  to  the  existence  of  a  box  of  salt. 

PROF.     Are  not  salt-boxes  otherwise  divided? 

STU.     Yes:  by  a  partition. 

PROF.     What  is  the  use  of  this  partition  ? 

STU.     To  separate  the  coarse  salt  from  the  fine. 

PROF.     How  ? — think  a  little. 

STU.     To  separate  the  fine  salt  from  the  coarse. 

PROF.  To  be  sure  : — it  is  to  separate  the  fine  from 
the  coarse  :  but  are  not  salt-boxes  yet  otherwise  distin 
guished  ? 

STU.     Yes  :  into  possible,  probable,  and  positive. 

PROF.     Define  these  several  kinds  of  salt-boxes. 

STU.  A  possible  salt-box  is  a  salt-box  yet  unsold  in 
the  hands  of  the  joiner. 

PROF.     Why  so  ? 

STU.  Because  it  hath  never  yet  become  a  salt-box  in 
fact,  having  never  had  any  salt  in  it ;  and  it  may  possi 
bly  be  applied  to  some  other  use. 


34  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

PROF.  Very  true  : — for  a  salt-box  which  never  had, 
hath  not  now,  and  perhaps  never  may  have,  any  salt  in 
it,  can  only  be  termed  a.  possible  salt-box.  What  is  a  pro 
bable  salt-box? 

STU.  It  is  a  salt-box  in  the  hand  of  one  going  to  a 
shop  to  buy  salt,  and  who  hath  six-pence  in  his  pocket  to 
pay  the  grocer :  and  a  positive  salt-box  is  one  which 
hath  actually  and  bona  fide  got  salt  in  it. 

PROF.  Very  good: — but  is  there  no  instance  of  aposi- 
tive  salt-box  which  hath  no  salt  in  it  ? 

STU.     I  know  of  none. 

PROF.  Yes :  there  is  one  mentioned  by  some  authors: 
it  is  where  a  box  hath  by  long  use  been  so  impregnated 
with  salt,  that  although  all  the  salt  hath  been  long  since 
emptied  out,  it  may  yet  be  called  a  salt-box,  with  the 
same  propriety  that  we  say  a  salt  herring,  salt  beef,  &c. 
And  in  this  sense  any  box  that  may  have  accidentally, 
or  otherwise,  been  long  steeped  in  brine,  may  be  termed 
positively  a  salt-box,  although  never  designed  for  the  pur 
pose  of  keeping  salt.  But  tell  me,  what  other  division 
of  salt-boxes  do  you  recollect  ? 

STU.  They  are  further  divided  into  substantive  and 
pendant :  a  substantive  salt-box  is  that  which  stands  by 
itself  on  the  table  or  dresser ;  and  a  pendant  is  that 
which  hangs  upon  a  nail  against  the  wall. 

PROF.     What  is  the  idea  of  a  salt-box  ? 

STU.  It  is  that  image  which  the  mind  conceives  of  a 
salt-box,  when  no  salt-box  is  present. 

PROF.     What  is  the  abstract  idea  of  a  salt-box  ? 

STU.  It  is  the  idea  of  a  salt-box,  abstracted  from  the 
idea  of  a  box,  or  of  salt,  or  of  a  salt-box,  or  of  a  box  of  salt. 

PROF.  Very  right : — and  by  these  means  you  acquire 
a  most  perfect  knowledge  of  a  salt-box  :  but  tell  me,  is 
the  idea  of  a  salt-box  a  salt  idea  ? 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  35 

STTJ.     Not  unless  the  ideal  box  hath  ideal  salt  in  it. 

PROF.  True  : — and  therefore  an  abstract  idea  cannot 
be  either  salt  or  fresh  ;  round  or  square  ;  long  or  short : 
for  a  true  abstract  idea  must  be  entirely  free  of  all  ad 
juncts.  And  this  shows  the  difference  between  a  salt 
idea,  and  an  idea  of  salt. — Is  an  aptitude  to  hold  salt  an 
essential  or  an  accidental  property  of  a  salt-box  ? 

STU.  It  is  essential ;  but  if  there  should  be  a  crack 
in  the  bottom  of  the  box,  the  aptitude  to  spill  salt  would 
be  termed  an  accidental  property  of  that  salt-box. 

PXOF.  Very  well !  very  well  indeed  ! — What  is  the 
salt  called  with  respect  to  the  box  ? 

STU.     It  is  called  its  contents. 

PROF.     And  why  so  ? 

STU.  Because  the  cook  is  content  quoad  hoc  to  find 
plenty  of  salt  in  the  box. 

PROF.  You  are  very  right.  I  see  you  have  not  mis 
spent  your  time :  but  let  us  now  proceed  to 

LOGIC. 

PROF.     How  many  parts  are  there  in  a  salt-box  ? 

STU.     Three.     Bottom,  top,  and  sides. 

PROF.     How  many  modes  are  there  in  salt-boxes  ? 

STU.  Four.  The  formal,  the  substantial,  the  acci 
dental,  and  the  topsey-turvey. 

PROF.     Define  these  several  modes. 

STU.  The  formal  respects  the  figure  or  shape  of  the 
box,  such  as  round,  square,  oblong,  and  so  forth;  the  sub 
stantial  respects  the  work  of  the  joiner  ;  and  the  acci 
dental  depends  upon  the  string  by  which  the  box  is  hung 
against  the  wall. 

PROF.  Very  well — And  what  are  the  consequences  of 
the  accidental  mode  ? 

STU.     If  the  string  should  break  the  box  would  fall,  the 


36  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

salt  be  spilt,  the  salt-box  broken,  and  the  cook  in  a  bitter 
passion  :  and  this  is  the  accidental  mode  with  its  conse 
quences. 

PROF.  How  do  you  distinguish  between  the  top  and 
bottom  of  a  salt-box  ? 

STU.  The  top  of  a  box  is  that  part  which  is  upper 
most,  and  the  bottom  that  part  which  is  lowest  in  all  po 
sitions. 

PROP.  You  should  rather  say  the  lowest  part  is  the 
bottom,  and  the  uppermost  part  is  the  top. — How  is  it 
then  if  the  bottom  should  be  the  uppermost  ? 

STU.  The  top  would  then  be  the  lowermost ;  and  so 
the  bottom  would  become  the  top,  and  the  top  would  be 
come  the  bottom :  and  this  is  called  the  topsey-turvey 
mode,  which  is  nearly  allied  to  the  accidental,  and  fre 
quently  arises  from  it. 

PROF.  Very  good. — But  are  not  salt-boxes  sometimes 
single  and  sometimes  double? 

STU.     Yes. 

PROF.  Well,  then  mention  the  several  combinations 
of  salt-boxes  with  respect  to  their  having  salt  or  not. 

STU.  They  are  divided  into  single  salt-boxes  having 
salt ;  single  salt-boxes  having  no  salt ;  double  salt-boxes 
having  salt ;  double  salt-boxes  having  no  salt ;  and  single 
double  salt-boxes  having  salt  and  no  salt. 

PROF.     Hold  !  hold  ! — you  are  going  too  far. 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  37 


©IF 


BY  SAMUEL  EWING. 

I  DO  remember  an  old  bachelor — 
And  hereabouts  he  dwells — whom  late  I  noted 
In  suit  of  sables  with  a  care-worn  brow 
Conning  his  books  ;  and  meagre  were  his  looks. 
Celibacy  had  worn  him  to  the  bones  ; — 
And  in  his  silent  parlour  hung  a  cloak 
The  which  the  moths  had  used  not  less  than  he ! 
Four  chairs,  one  table,  and  an  old  hair-trunk 
Made  up  the  furniture,  and  on  his  shelves 
A  grease-clad  candlestick,  a  broken  mug, 
Two  tumblers,  and  a  box  of  strong  cigars, 
Remnants  of  volumes,  once  in  some  repute, 
Were  thinly  scattered  round  to  tell  the  eye 
Of  prying  stranger — this  man  had  no  wife. — 
His  tattered  elbow  gaped  most  piteously, 
And  ever  as  he  turned  him  round,  his  skin 
Did  through  his  stockings  peep  upon  the  day. — 
Noting  his  gloom,  unto  myself  I  said, 
An  if  a  man  did  covet  single  life, 
Reckless  of  joys  which  Matrimony  gives, 
Here  lives  a  lonely  wretch  would  show  it  him 
In  such  most  dismal  colours,  that  the  shrew, 
Or  slut,  or  idiot,  or  the  gossip  spouse, 
Were  each  a  Heaven,  compared  with  such  a  life. 
But  this  same  thought  does  not  forerun  my  need, 
Nor  shall  this  bachelor  tempt  me  to  wed. 
4 


38  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

As  I  remember  this  should  be  the  house ; 
Being  Sabbath  noon,  the  outer  door  is  shut. 

I  DO  remember  a  precise  old  maid — 
And  hereabout  she  dwells — whom  late  I  noted 
In  rustling  gown,  with  wan  and  withered  lips, 
Demure  and  formal,  dusting-cloth  in  hand, 
Rubbing  her  chairs,  and  meagre  were  her  looks. 
Envy  had  worn  her  to  the  very  bones  ! 
And  in  her  shining  parlour  flower  pots  stood, 
Decked  with  geranium,  and  jessamine, 
And  orange  trees,  and  roses,  pinks  and  lilies, 
"  Bachelor's  buttons"  crisp  as  she  herself, 
And  lowly  passion-flower,  the  type  of  love  ! 
Six  chairs,  two  tables,  and  a  looking  glass, 
Were  burnished  bright  and  oft;  and  round  the  room, 
On  wall,  in  closet,  or  on  mantel-piece, 
An  old  work-basket^  sal-volatile, 
Portraits  of  maiden  aunts,  in  ball-room  suit, 
With  lamb  or  lap  dog  hanging  on  their  arms, 
Novels  from  Circulating  Library, 
"Law's  Serious  Call  to  unconverted  folks," 
Love  elegies,  a  Bible,  and  a  cat, 
Were  duly  ranged,  for  ornament  or  use, 
As  spleen  prevailed  or  visiters  came  in. 
List'ning,  as  through  the  house  her  shrill  voice  screamed, 
Scolding  the  servants,  to  myself  I  said, 
An  if  a  man  did  wish  to  gain  a  wife, 
With  show  of  courtship,  here's  an  ancient  maid, 
Whose  lips  have  practised  long  before  the  glass, 
The  faint  refusal,  and  the  eager  yes 
Following  as  quick  as  echo  to  the  sound  ! 
And  this  same  thought  does  but  forerun  my  need. 
I'll  instant  seek — some  younger  maid  to  wed  ! 
As  I  remember  this  should  be  the  house. 
Being  twilight-hour,  she's  out  upon  the  trot 
To  barter  scandal  for  a  dish  of  tea. 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 


39 


ANONYMOUS. 


REMOTE  from  the  intrigues  of  the  court,  and  unruffled 
by  the  din  of  contention,  our  days  were  joyful  and  se 
rene,  like  those  which  nurture  the  beautiful  Halcyon. 
Enjoying  the  uninterrupted  society  of  a  friend  whom  1 
esteemed,  and  a  wife  whom  I  loved,  the  gods  had  left  me 
nothing  to  wish.  When  I  reflected  upon  the  happiness 
which  this  intercourse  produced,  I  could  not  but  acknowl 
edge  the  source  of  it.  "  How  sweet  to  the  soul  of  man," 
would  I  exclaim,  "is  the  society  of  a  beloved  wife!  when, 
wearied  and  broken  down  by  the  labours  of  the  day,  her 
endearments  soothe,  her  tender  cares  restore  him.  The 
solicitudes  and  anxieties,  and  heavier  misfortunes  of  life, 
are  hardly  to  be  borne  by  him  who  has  the  weight  of 
business  and  domestic  vexations  to  contend  with.  But 
how  much  lighter  do  they  seem,  when,  after  his  neces 
sary  avocations  are  over,  he  returns  to  his  home  and  finds 
there  a  partner  of  all  his  griefs  and  troubles,  who  takes, 
for  his  sake,  her  share  of  domestic  labour  upon  her,  and 
soothes  the  anguish  of  his  soul  by  her  comfort  and  parti 
cipation.  By  the  immortal  gods  !  a  wife  is  not,  as  she  is 
falsely  represented  by  some,  a  burthen  or  a  sorrow  to  man. 
No,  she  shares  his  burthens  and  alleviates  his  sorrows. 
For  there  is  no  toil  nor  difficulty  so  insupportable  in  life, 
but  it  may  be  surmounted  by  the  mutual  efforts  and  the 
affectionate  concord  of  that  holy  partnership." 


40  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

After  we  had  been  settled  a  short  time  in  our  new 
abode,  Anacreon  resolved  to  send  an  invitation  to  Lesbos 
for  Sappho.  Among  others  the  following  ode,  in  which 
he  described  the  simplicity  of  our  fare  and  the  warmth  of 
his  affection,  was  composed  upon  this  occasion : 

TO  SAPPHO. 

A  BROKEN  cake,  with  honey  sweet, 
Is  all  my  spare  and  simple  treat ; 
And  while  a  generous  bowl  I  crown 
To  float  my  little  banquet  down, 
I  take  the  soft,  the  amorous  lyre, 
And  sing  of  love's  delicious  fire  ! 
In  mirthful  measures,  warm  and  free, 
I  sing,  dear  maid,  and  sing  for  thee  ! 

But  it  was  not  reserved  for  him  again  to  enjoy  the  so 
ciety  of  this  lovely  woman,  whose  genius  was  only  equal 
led  by  her  misfortunes.  Before  the  courier  had  departed, 
I  received  information  from  one  of  my  friends  at  Myti- 
lene,  that  Sappho  had  terminated  her  life  and  her  suffer 
ings  by  precipitating  herself  into  the  sea  from  the  summit 
of  a  mountain  in  Leucadia.  The  following  fragment  of 
an  ode  was  found  on  the  shore  : 

From  dread  Leucadia's  frowning  steep, 
I'll  plunge  into  the  whitening  deep ; 
And  there  I'll  float,  to  waves  resign'd, 
For  love  intoxicates  my  mind ! 

The  mournful  intelligence  was  unfortunately  commu 
nicated  to  Anacreon,  while  he  was  engaged  at  a  banquet 
with  a  few  of  his  former  friends.  The  sudden  dismay 
which  this  unexpected  information  occasioned  was  such 
that  he  did  not  observe  a  grape-stone  which  was  floating 
in  his  wine.  He  was  choked  by  the  contents  of  the  cup, 
and  the  melancholy  consequences  were  soon  too  visible 
in  his  countenance.  I  ran  to  succour  him  ;  but  with  a 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  41 

smile  that  bespoke  the  feeble  exertions  of  nature,  he  sig 
nified  that  it  was  too  late.  I  gave  him  a  cup  of  wine  in 
hopes  of  relieving  him.  He  took  it  from  me,  and,  as  he 
held  it  in  his  hand,  he  gave  me  this  ode,  in  which  he  an 
nounced  his  departure  from  us  in  a  strain  of  prophetic  in 
spiration  which  resembles  the  plaintive  notes  of  the  ex 
piring  swan  : 

GOLDEN  hues  of  youth  are  fled ; 
Hoary  locks  deform  my  head. 
Bloomy  graces,  dalliance  gay, 
All  the  flowers  of  life  decay. 
Withering  age  begins  to  trace 
Sad  memorials  o'er  my  face; 
Time  has  shed  its  sweetest  bloom, 
All  the  future  must  be  gloom  ! 
This  awakes  my  hourly  sighing  ; 
Dreary  is  the  thought  of  dying ! 
Pluto's  is  a  dark  abode, 
Sad  the  journey,  sad  the  road : 
And,  the  gloomy  travel  o'er, 
Ah  !  we  can  return  no  more  ! 

He  then  poured  out  a  libation  to  the  Eumenides,  the 
inexorable  ministers  of  the  vengeance  of  Pluto,  and  hav 
ing  thus  endeavoured  to  appease  their  fury,  he  sunk  upon 
his  couch.  It  was  in  vain  that  we  prayed  to  Apollo,  to 
whom  sudden  deaths  are  imputed.  Anacreon  likewise 
would  have  prayed  to  Mercury,  to  whom  is  confided  the 
mournful  office  of  conducting  ghosts  to  the  shades  below; 
but  the  pangs  of  death  were  upon  him  and  the  power  of 
utterance  was  denied.  We  sounded  brazen  kettles,  to 
expel  those  furies  which  are  ever  on  the  alert  to  carry  the 
unfortunate  to  places  of  torment.  We  crowded  around 
his  couch,  that  we  might  hear  his  dying  words  ;  we 
kissed  him  and  endeavoured  to  imbibe  his  latest  breath 
into  our  mouths. 

4* 


42  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

I  had  heard  for  the  last  time  the  sounds  of  a  voice  which 
had  never  addressed  me  but  in  the  language  of  kindness 
— the  lustre  of  those  eyes  which  had  ever  beamed  with 
mirth  and  joy  became  dim,  and  after  a  faint  struggle,  he 
sought  the  shades  of  Elysium  ! 

He  retained  his  senses  so  as  to  be  able  to  depart  in  a  de 
cent  posture.  As  soon  as  we  found  that  he  had  expired, 
his  eyes  and  mouth  were  closed,  and  before  the  body  was 
cold  it  was  stretched  ;  and  soon  afterwards  it  was  washed 
by  the  females  of  the  household.  After  it  had  been  rub 
bed  with  fragrant  oil  and  other  costly  ointments,  it  was 
clad  in  a  splendid  white  robe,  by  which  was  indicated 
the  pure  spirit  of  the  deceased.  It  was  then  covered 
with  green  boughs  and  flowers,  the  liveliness  and  brilli 
ancy  of  whose  hues  denoted  the  felicity  which  was  to  be 
enjoyed  after  this  life.  Being  placed  upon  a  bier,  it  was 
carried  to  the  entrance  of  the  door.  Here  it  was  expo 
sed  to  public  view  in  order  to  prevent  any  suspicion  of 
his  death  having  been  occasioned  by  a  wound.  The  feet 
were  turned  to  the  door,  to  signify  that  he  would  never 
return ;  and  the  corpse  was  constantly  watched,  to  pre 
vent  the  pollution  of  flies  or  the  violence  of  rude  curios 
ity.  The  mouth  was  filled  with  cake  composed  of  flour, 
honey,  and  water,  to  appease  the  fury  of  Cerberus,  and  a 
piece  of  money  was  placed  upon  it,  as  a  bribe  to  the  surly 
ferryman  of  the  Styx. 

The  hair  of  Anacreon  was  cut  off  and  hung  upon  the 
door,  to  indicate  the  house  of  sorrow  ;  and  while  the 
corpse  remained  there,  a  vessel  of  water  stood  nigh,  that 
those  who  touched  it  might  purify  themselves.  After  it 
had  been  preserved  seventeen  days  and  nights,  we  pre 
pared  for  the  solemn  ceremony  of  interment. 

But  it  was  supposed,  that  the  spirit  of  our  departed 
friend  would  be  better  satisfied  if  his  ashes  were  deposit- 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  43 

ed  in  his  natal  soil,  and  we  therefore  determined  to  burn 
the  body.  In  the  dead  of  the  night,  when  the  silence  of 
nature  accorded  with  the  sadness  of  our  souls,  and  the 
awfulness  of  the  ceremony,  we  lighted  our  torches,  to 
preserve  us  from  the  evil  spirits  which  then  ventured 
abroad.  As  soon  as  the  sun  arose,  we  took  our  last  fare 
well,  and  conveyed  the  body  from  the  house.  As  we 
moved  along  with  a  slow  pace,  our  uncovered  heads,  bent 
down  and  supported  by  our  hands,  attested  our  respect, 
and  the  serious  notes  of  the  Carian  and  Phrygian  flutes, 
bewailed  the  loss  of  our  friend.  Some  persons  sprinkled 
their  heads  with  ashes,  and  muttered  the  funeral  interjec 
tion,  ?,  Ii  e,  while  others  rolled  their  bodies  in  the  dust 
When  we  arrived  at  the  pile,  the  body  was  placed  in  the 
middle  of  it,  with  a  quantity  of  precious  ointments  and 
perfumes,  and  also  the  fat  of  beasts,  to  increase  the  force 
of  the  flames.  The  garments  of  the  deceased  being 
thrown  in,  the  sad  office  of  communicating  fire  to  the  pile 
devolved  upon  me,  as  none  of  the  relations  of  Anacreon 
were  present.  Having  prayed  and  offered  vows  to  ^Eolus 
to  assist  the  flames,  I  applied  the  torch.  His  immediate 
friends  stood  nigh  to  the  pile,  cutting  off  their  hair  and 
casting  it  into  the  flames,  and  also  pouring  out  libations  of 
wine.  The  pile  being  burnt  down,  the  embers  were  ex 
tinguished  by  wine.  We  collected  the  ashes  and  enclosed 
them  in  a  silver  urn,  which  was  soon  after  sent  to  his 
relations  at  Athens. 

Grecians  !  his  hallowed  ashes  are  covered  by  a  monu 
ment  which  is  erected  by  the  altar  of  the  Muses  on  the 
margin  of  Ilyssus.  When  the  mellow  tints  of  the  declin 
ing  sun  shall  sleep  on  the  waters,  and  ye  assemble  on  its 
banks,  tread  lightly  on  the  sod  that  covers  the  silent  urn. 
Violets  shall  bloom  around  the  sacred  spot;  there  the  lotus 
shall  spread  its  embowering  branches,  and  the  roses  of 


44  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

spring  shall  impart  their  sweetest  fragrance  to  the  breeze 
that  lingers  around  the  tomb  of  the  Teian  bard. 

There  the  chords  of  the  plaintive  lyre  shall  often  re 
spire  the  sad  and  solemn  notes  of  wo,  and  the  virgins  who 
dwell  at  the  foot  of  the  double  mountain  shall  chaunthis 
dirge. 

As  the  winds  of  the  declining  year  assail  the  green- 
clad  trees  and  strew  the  ground  with  their  foliage,  and 
the  approaching  spring  bids  them  revive  with  renovated 
beauty,  so  is  one  generation  of  man  called  from  the  joys 
of  life,  and  another  succeeds.  But  long  shall  Ilyssus  roll 
his  inspiring  flood,  and  many  Olympiads  shall  ye  walk 
in  the  porticos  of  Athens,  or  stray  by  the  side  of  the  silver 
Strymon,  before  your  ears  shall  be  gladdened  by  such 
sounds  as  ye  heard  from  the  lyre  of  Anacreon  :  for  the 
Graces  presided  at  his  birth,  and  the  Muses  delighted  to 
inspire  his  meditations. 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  45 


BY  WILLIAM  CLIFFTON. 


THE  morn  was  fresh,  and  pure  the  gale, 

When  Mary,  from  her  cot  a  rover, 
Pluck'd  many  a  wild  rose  of  the  vale 

To  bind  the  temples  of  her  lover. 
As  near  his  little  farm  she  stray'd, 

Where  birds  of  love  were  ever  pairing, 
She  saw  her  William  in  the  shade, 

The  arms  of  ruthless  war  preparing. 
"  Though  now,"  he  cried,  "  I  seek  the  hostile  plain, 
Mary  shall  smile,  and  all  be  fair  again." 

She  seized  his  hand,  and  "  Ah  !"  she  cried, 

"  Wilt  thou,  to  camps  and  war  a  stranger, 
Desert  thy  Mary's  faithful  side, 

And  bare  thy  life  to  every  danger  ? 
Yet  go,  brave  youth  !  to  arms  away  ! 

My  maiden  hands  for  fight  shall  dress  thee, 
And  when  the  drum  beats  far  away, 

I'll  drop  a  silent  tear  and  bless  thee. 
Return'd  with  honour,  from  the  hostile  plain, 
Mary  will  smile,  and  all  be  fair  again. 

"  The  bugles  through  the  forest  wind, 

The  woodland  soldiers  call  to  battle, 
Be  some  protecting  angel  kind, 

And  guard  thy  life  when  cannons  rattle  !" 


46  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

She  sung,  and  as  the  rose  appears 
In  sunshine,  when  the  storm  is  over, 

A  smile  beam'd  sweetly  through  her  tears, 
The  blush  of  promise  to  her  lover. 

Re  turn' d  in  triumph  from  the  hostile  plain, 

All  shall  be  fair,  and  Mary  smile  again. 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  47 


FROM  INCHIQUIN'S  LETTERS. 


BY  C.  J.  INGERSOLL. 


ON  a  fine  morning,  three  days  ago,  I  sallied  out  for  a 
ramble  before  breakfast,  thinking,  perhaps,  to  see  some 
thing  worthy  of  observation;  and  as  adventures  were  my 
object,  I  left  the  highway,  or  avenue,  as  it  is  called,  and 
struck  into  the  moor,  that  composes  a  great  part  of  the 
city.  I  had  not  walked  a  mile,  when  I  heard  a  gun  go 
off,  and  saw  the  smoke  rising  at  a  little  distance.  Not 
caring  to  encounter  fire-arms  in  so  wild  a  place,  I  was 
turning  back,  when  I  saw  a  dog  hunting  about  among  the 
bushes,  and  close  after  him  a  young  man,  who  came  run 
ning  towards  me,  not  to  plunder,  as  I  for  an  instant  ap 
prehended,  but  merely  to  inquire  if  I  had  seen  a  covey 
of  quails  flying  that  way.  He  had  a  powder-horn  and 
shot-bag  over  his  shoulders,  a  liquor  flask  hanging  on  one 
side,  and  a  pouch  full  of  dead  quails  on  the  other,  was  al 
together  rather  coarsely  caparisoned,  and  seemed  to  be 
intent  on  his  game.  Just  after  he  accosted  me,  an  officer, 
in  a  rich  habit  and  laced  hat,  but  unarmed,  came  riding 
very  fast  over  the  heath,  leading  a  horse  ready  saddled 
and  bridled,  and  drawing  up  close  to  where  we  stood,  pull 
ed  off  his  hat,  and  said  to  the  hunter,  "  Sir,  there  are  des 
patches  just  arrived."  "  When  ?"  cried  the  hunter. 
"Within  this  half  hour — by  express — two  sets,  Sir." 
"  Give  me  the  horse,  and  take  my  gun,"  added  the  hunt- 


48  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

er  hastily;  and  disencumbering  himself  from  his  shooting 
accoutrements,  he  vaulted  into  the  saddle  of  the  led  horse, 
and  galloped  out  of  sight  in  a  minute.  All  amazed  at  this 
mysterious  meeting,  "Pray,  Sir,"  said  I  respectfully  to 
the  officer,  as  he  was  gathering  up  the  things  the  hunter 
had  thrown  off,  "  Who  is  that  ?"  "  That  is  the  envoy," 
answered  the  officer,  with  an  air  of  dignity.  "  But  who 
is  the  envoy?"  replied  I,  "  What  is  an  envoy?  That's 
not  the  president,  is  it?"  "  The  president/'  retorted  the 
officer,  with  a  sneer,  "  I  believe  not — that's  another 
guess  sort  of  a  person — that's  the  envoy  extraordinary." 
"But  why  is  he  extraordinary?"  said  I.  "Why  be 
cause,"  said  he.  "  Because  why?"  said  I.  "  Why  be 
cause  he  is  the  British  ambassador,  my  master,  and  the 
king  his  master's  servant,  and  I  am  his  servant,  and  nei 
ther  he  nor  I  cares  a  d — n  for  the  president,  for  the  matter 
of  that,"  said  the  officer,  and  mounting  his  beast,  he  trot 
ted  away  whistling  after  the  other. 

And  is  it  possible  thought  I,  that  that  young  hunter  is 
the  British  ambassador,  the  representative  of  the  great 
merchant  monarch,  whose  fleet  forced  the  Dardanelles, 
and  threatened  to  batter  down  Constantinople. 

With  this  sort  of  mental  ejaculations  I  amused  myself, 
strolling  along  in  a  different  direction  from  that  I  had  fol 
lowed  at  first,  and  not  paying  much  attention  to  which 
way  I  went,  till  I  came  to  a  thicket,  where  I  was  roused 
from  my  reverie  by  the  report  of  another  gun,  and  look 
ing  about,  I  saw  a  rabbit,  pursued  by  a  couple  of  dogs  in 
full  cry.  As  I  was  always  fond  of  the  chase,  you  know, 
and  used  often  to  amuse  myself  in  this  way  on  the  hills 
near  Ismir,  I  joined  instinctively  in  the  pursuit,  shouted 
to  encourage  the  dogs,  and  made  the  best  exertions  1  could 
to  keep  up  with  them.  The  rabbit  doubled,  and  made 
back  for  the  cover.  Just  as  she  was  escaping  into  the 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  49 

\ 

thicket,  another  shot  whizzed  by  my  head,  and  down 
dropped  puss  dead  at  my  feet.  Casting  around  for  the 
person  from  whom  it  came,  I  presently  descried  a  gentle 
man  under  a  large  tree,  leaning  on  his  fowling-piece,  and 
calling  to  the  dogs  to  come  in.  As  I  approached  him, 
he  accosted  me  in  French,  telling  me  that  I  ran  very 
well;  to  which  I  answered,  also  in  French,  that  he  shot 
very  well.  Being  thus  mutually  introduced  by  a  slight 
compliment,  we  entered  into  conversation  about  the  dogs, 
the  rabbits,  the  ground,  the  weather,  and  a  variety  of  such 
indifferent  subjects,  which  lasted,  I  suppose,  for  half  an 
hour,  when  a  carriage  drove  up  on  a  road  a  few  paces 
distant,  into  which  the  Frenchman  got  with  his  dogs  and 
dead  rabbit,  and  drove  away. 

By  this  time  I  began  to  think  of  my  breakfast,  and  of 
returning ;  but  on  reconnoitering  my  position,  perceiv 
ed  that  I  had  lost  all  trace  of  the  route.  A  mussulman 
knows  he  is  safe  till  his  hour  comes;  but  there  may  be 
situations  in  which  it  is  no  sin  to  feel  uneasy.  There  was 
no  time  to  pause  in  such  a  place,  where  I  did  not  know 
but  that  the  next  thing  I  met  might  be  a  carnivorous 
Indian,  with  his  tomahawk,  riding  post  on  a  mammoth, 
and  therefore,  according  to  the  best  judgment  I  could 
form  of  my  bearings,  I  took  a  fresh  departure,  walking 
on  at  a  gait  not  a  little  accelerated  by  an  increasing  appe 
tite,  and  the  dread  of  being  lost  or  devoured  in  the  Fede 
ral  City.  It  never  occurred  to  me  to  follow  the  carriage, 
in  which  I  might  have  found  a  conveyance  or  a  pilot:  but 
in  the  exigency  of  my  affairs,  I  pursued  a  course  as  straight 
as  the  nature  of  the  territory  would  admit,  without  any 
prospect,  or  prominent  object,  to  serve  as  a  beacon.  After 
wandering  a  miserable  time,  and  thinking  over  all  those 
lamentable  thoughts,  which  occur  to  one  expecting  to 
perish  in  an  inhospitable  land,  when  I  began  almost  to 
5 


50  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

despair,  I  came  to  a  hovel  inhabited  by  black  slaves;  what 
is  called  a  negro  quarter.  It  was  a  wretched  log  house, 
thatched  with  straw,  with  neither  window  nor  chimney. 
There  was  a  mule  at  the  door,  making  a  meal  offthe  roof; 
a  cat,  three  dogs,  and  a  negro  child,  with  no  other  cover 
ing  than  a  ragged  shirt,  through  which  a  dingy  skin  show 
ed  in  many  places.  I  asked  the  way  to  my  lodgings;  but 
getting  no  answer  beyond  barking,  purring  and  grinning, 
went  into  the  house,  where  I  was  more  fortunate.  There 
was  an  old  woman,  smoking  a  pipe,  not  more  than  an 
inch  long,  a  young  one  with  a  child  in  her  arms,  and  a 
man,  seated  on  the  ground,  round  a  smoke  rather  than  a 
fire,  eating  cake  made  of  Indian  meal,  and  hominy,  a  pre 
paration  of  Indian  corn.  Upon  repeating  my  inquiry, 
as  I  entered,  the  man  came  to  the  door,  and  showed  me 
which  way  I  should  go — the  reverse  of  that  I  had  been 
travelling  for  an  hour  and  more. 

Finding  them  plentifully  supplied  with  provender, 
such  as  it  was,  and  my  appetite  rising  as  my  apprehen 
sions  subsided,  I  joined  the  sombre  circle,  and  partook 
of  a  luncheon  of  the  cake,  with  some  hominy.  It  was 
now  almost  noon,  and  these  poor  people  were  taking  their 
dinner.  As  I  plyed  them  with  a  great  many  questions, 
which  they  answered  as  well  as  they  could,  in  their  turn 
they  put  some  to  me,  and  among  others  one  that  led  to  an 
important  disclosure.  "I  guess  massa  belong  to  the 
French  bassador,"  said  the  young  woman,  showing  all 
her  teeth.  "What's  that?"  answered  I.  "Him  that 
shoots  rabbits;"  and  from  a  little  more  information  on 
this  subject,  interlarded  between  mouthfuls  of  hominy,  I 
was  given  fully  to  understand,  that  the  hunter,  whom  I 
last  met,  who  went  away  in  a  carriage  freighted  with 
rabbits,  was  no  other  than  the  plenipo  of  another  mighty 
monarch,  who  amuses  himself  by  field  sports  in  the  heart 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  51 

of  the  American  capital.  Nothing  ought  to  surprise  in 
this  country,  or  one  might  be  permitted  to  wonder  at 
meeting  two  such  personages  scouring  the  forests  for  re 
creation.  But  I  am  surfeited  with  amazement;  and  there 
fore,  after  receiving  very  particular  instructions  from  my 
black  hosts  how  to  proceed  in  order  to  find  the  shortest 
cut  home,  I  gave  them  a  fippenny  bit,  (a  species  of  Ameri 
can  coin,)  and  set  forward  once  more,  determined  never 
again,  whatever  oddities  I  might  meet,  to  try  so  early  an 
excursion  in  a  federal  city. 

I  was  to  go  through  a  copse  that  lay  on  my  right,  being 
several  miles  from  my  destination,  and  after  clearing  the 
wood,  to  follow  a  foot-path  I  should  see.  Into  the  wood 
I  hastened ;  but  had  not  gone  a  hundred  yards,  when  I 
heard  two  shots  in  quick  succession  close  to  me.  No 
thing  but  riflemen  and  sharp  shooting  in  this  country, 
thought  I;  and  turning  an  angle  of  the  track,  I  discover 
ed  a  scene  which  I  could  not  comprehend  at  first,  but 
which  was  soon  brought  home  to  me  in  a  terrible  expla 
nation.  There  were  two  men  standing  a  few  paces  apart, 
facing  each  other;  two  more  at  a  little  distance  loading 
pistols;  and  two  others  farther  off,  standing  together. 
They  all  looked  grave  and  anxious — not  a  word  was  said 
— but  a  presentiment  of  what  their  business  was,  chilled 
me  with  apprehension.  In  a  few  seconds,  each  one  of 
those  loading  pistols  went  to  those  that  stood  opposed, 
and  handed  a  pistol  to  each  of  them.  They  then  placed 
them  precisely  to  a  certain  spot,  adjusted  their  postures 
so  as  to  exhibit  what,  as  I  have  since  learned,  is  called  the 
feather  edge,  and  then  withdrawing  aside,  one  of  the  load 
ers  asked, "  Are  you  ready  ?"  "  Yes/'  said  the  other  two, 
advancing  their  pistols.  "  Fire  when  you  please,"  cried 
the  loader.  At  the  word,  one  of  them  discharged  his 
piece,  and  the  other  receiving  the  ball  in  his  body,  fell  to 


52  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

the  ground,  his  pistol  going  off  into  the  air  with  the  con 
vulsive  distortion  of  his  fall.  Immediately  all  but  the 
man  who  had  perpetrated  the  deed  ran  up  to  him  who 
was  expiring,  and  I,  springing  over  a  fence  against  which 
I  was  leaning  almost  petrified,  flew  to  join  the  assistance. 
He  was  weltering  in  the  blood  that  streamed  from  his 
side,  and  had  fainted  before  any  body  could  approach  him. 
The  two,  who  had  remained  at  a  distance,  without  taking 
any  active  part,  and  who  now  appeared  to  be  surgeons, 
with  as  much  despatch  as  they  could,  uncovered  his  body, 
and  endeavoured,  by  certain  applications  they  had  pre 
pared,  to  stanch  his  blood.  In  a  short  time  the  wounded 
revived  from  his  swoon,  and  was  supported  in  the  lap  of 
one  of  the  assistants.  His  antagonist  now  drawing  nigh, 
shook  hands  with  him  with  great  emotion,  hurried  off, 
and  disappeared.  The  wounded  man  was  then  laid  on  a 
blanket,  and  carried  by  the  other  three,  with  my  help,  to 
a  close  carriage,  that  was  waiting  near  the  place  of  action, 
into  which  he  was  put,  the  ghastliness  of  death  on  his 
countenance,  and  the  whole  party  slowly  drove  away. 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  53 


BY  NATHANIEL  EVANS. 

O  DEATH  !  thou  victor  of  the  human  frame  ! 
The  soul's  poor  fabric  trembles  at  thy  name  ! 
How  long  shall  man  be  urged  to  dread  thy  sway, 
For  those  whom  thou  untimely  tak'st  away  ? 
Life's  blooming  spring  just  opens  to  our  eyes, 
And  strikes  the  senses  with  a  sweet  surprise, 
When  thy  fierce  arm  uplifts  the  fatal  blow 
That  hurls  us  breathless  to  the  earth  below. 

Sudden,  as  darts  the  lightning  through  the  sky, 
Around  the  globe  thy  various  weapons  fly. 
Here  war's  red  engines  heap  the  field  with  slain, 
And  pallid  sickness  there  extends  thy  reign  ; 
Here  the  soft  virgin  weeps  her  lover  dead, 
There  maiden  beauty  sinks  the  graceful  head ; 
Here  infants  grieve  their  parents  are  no  more, 
There  reverend  sires  their  children's  deaths  deplore  ; 
Here  the  sad  friend — O  !  save  the  sacred  name, 
Yields  half  his  soul  to  thy  relentless  claim  j 
O  pardon,  pardon  the  descending  tear ! 
Friendship  commands,  and  not  the  Muses,  here. 
O  say,  thou  much  loved,  dear  departed  shade, 
To  what  celestial  region  hast  thou  stray'd  ? 
Where  is  that  vein  of  thought,  that  noble  fire, 
Which  fed  thy  soul,  and  bade  the  world  admire  ? 
That  manly  strife  with  fortune  to  be  just, 
That  love  of  praise  ?  an  honorable  thirst ! 
5* 


54  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

The  soul,  alas !  has  fled  to  endless  day, 
And  left  its  house  a  mouldering  mass  of  clay. 

There,  where  no  fears  invade,  nor  ills  molest, 
Thy  soul  shall  dwell  immortal  with  the  blest ; 
In  that  bright  realm,  where  dearest  friends  no  more 
Shall  from  each  other's  throbbing  breasts  be  tore, 
Where  all  those  glorious  spirits  sit  enshrined, 
The  just,  the  good,  the  virtuous  of  mankind; 
There  shall  fair  angels  in  a  radiant  ring, 
And  the  great  Son  of  Heaven's  eternal  King, 
Proclaim  thee  welcome  to  the  blissful  skies, 
And  wipe  the  tears  for  ever  from  thine  eyes. 

How  did  we  hope —  alas  !  the  hope  how  vain ! 
To  hear  thy  future  more  enripened  strain ; 
When  fancy's  fire  with  judgment  had  combined 
To  guide  each  effort  of  the  enraptured  mind. 
Yet  are  those  youthful  glowing  lays  of  thine 
The  emanations  of  a  soul  divine  ; 
Who  heard  thee  sing,  but  felt  sweet  music's  dart 
In  thrilling  transports  pierce  his  captive  heart  ? 
Whether  soft  melting  airs  attuned  thy  song, 
Or  pleased  to  pour  the  thundering  verse  along, 
Still  nobly  great,  true  offspring  of  the  Nine, 
Alas  !  how  blasted  in  thy  glorious  prime  ! 
So  when  first  ope  the  eyelids  of  the  morn, 
A  radiant  purple  does  the  heavens  adorn, 
Fresh  smiling  glory  streaks  the  skies  around, 
And  gaily  silvers  each  enamel'd  mound, 
Till  some  black  storm  o'erclouds  the  ether  fair, 
And  all  its  beauties  vanish  into  air. 

Stranger,  whoe'er  thou  art,  by  fortune's  hand 
Toss'd  on  the  baleful  Carolinian  strand, 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  55 

Oh!  if  thou  seest  perchance  the  poet's  grave, 
The  sacred  spot  with  tears  of  sorrow  lave  ; 
Oh  !  shade  it,  shade  it  with  ne'er  fading  bays; 
Hallow'd's  the  place  where  gentle  Godfrey  lays. 
(So  may  no  sudden  dart  from  death's  dread  bow, 
Far  from  the  friends  thou  lov'st  e'er  lay  thee  low,) 
There  may  the  weeping  morn  its  tribute  bring, 
And  angels  shield  it  with  their  golden  wing, 
Till  the  last  trump  shall  burst  the  womb  of  night* 
And  the  purged  atoms  to  their  soul  unite  ! 


56  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 


BY  C.  B.  BROWN. 


THE  path  which  had  hitherto  been  considerably  smooth, 
now  became  rugged  and  steep.  Chilling  damps,  the  se 
cret  trepidation  which  attended  me,  the  length  and  diffi 
culties  of  my  way,  enhanced  by  the  ceaseless  caution  and 
the  numerous  expedients  which  the  utter  darkness  oblig 
ed  me  to  employ,  began  to  overpower  my  strength.  I 
was  frequently  compelled  to  stop  and  recruit  myself  by 
rest  These  respites  from  toil  were  of  use,  but  they 
could  not  enable  me  to  prosecute  an  endless  journey,  and 
to  return  was  scarcely  a  less  arduous  task  than  to  pro 
ceed. 

I  looked  anxiously  forward  in  the  hope  of  being  com 
forted  by  some  dim  ray,  which  might  assure  me  that  my 
labours  were  approaching  an  end.  At  last  this  propitious 
token  appeared,  and  I  issued  forth  into  a  kind  of  cham 
ber,  one  side  of  which  was  open  to  the  air  and  allowed 
me  to  catch  a  portion  of  the  chequered  sky.  This  spec 
tacle  never  before  excited  such  exquisite  sensations  in  my 
bosom.  The  air,  likewise,  breathed  into  the  cavern,  was 
unspeakably  delicious. 

I  now  found  myself  on  the  projecture  of  a  rock. 
Above  and  below  the  hill-side  was  nearly  perpendicular. 
Opposite,  and  at  the  distance  of  fifteen  or  twenty  yards, 
was  a  similar  ascent.  At  the  bottom  was  a  glen,  cold, 
narrow,  and  obscure.  The  projecture,  which  served  as 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  57 

a  kind  of  vestibule  to  the  cave,  was  connected  with  a 
ledge,  by  which  though  not  without  peril  and  toil,  I  was 
conducted  to  the  summit. 

This  summit  was  higher  than  any  of  those  which  were 
interposed  between  itself  and  the  river.  A  large  part 
of  this  chaos  of  rocks  and  precipices  was  subjected,  at  one 
view,  to  the  eye.  The  fertile  lawns  and  vales  which  lay 
beyond  this,  the  winding  course  of  the  river,  and  the  slopes 
which  rose  on  its  farther  side,  were  parts  of  this  exten 
sive  scene.  These  objects  were  at  any  time  fitted  to  in 
spire  rapture.  Now  my  delight  was  enhanced  by  the 
contrast  which  this  lightsome  and  serene  element  bore  to 
the  glooms  from  which  I  had  lately  emerged.  My  sta 
tion,  also,  was  higher,  and  the  limits  of  my  view,  con 
sequently,  more  ample  than  any  which  I  had  hitherto  en 
joyed. 

I  advanced  to  the  outer  verge  of  the  hill,  which  I 
found  to  overlook  a  steep,  no  less  inaccessible,  and  a  glen 
equally  profound.  I  changed  frequently  my  station  in 
order  to  diversify  the  scenery.  At  length  it  became  ne 
cessary  to  inquire  by  what  means  I  should  return.  I  tra 
versed  the  edge  of  the  hill,  but  on  every  side  it  was  equal 
ly  steep  and  always  too  lofty  to  permit  me  to  leap  from 
it.  As  I  kept  along  the  verge,  I  perceived  that  it  tended 
in  a  circular  direction,  and  brought  me  back  at  last,  to 
the  spot  from  which  I  had  set  out.  From  this  inspec 
tion,  it  seemed  as  if  return  was  impossible  by  any  other 
way  than  that  through  the  cavern. 

I  now  turned  my  attention  to  the  interior  space.  If 
you  imagine  a  cylindrical  mass,  with  a  cavity  dug  in  the 
centre,  whose  edge  conforms  to  the  exterior  edge;  and,  if 
you  place  in  this  cavity  another  cylinder,  higher  than  that 
which  surrounds  it,  but  so  small  as  to  leave  between  its 
sides  and  those  of  the  cavity,  an  hollow  space,  you  will 


58  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

gain  as  distinct  an  image  of  this  hill  as  words  can  convey. 
The  summit  of  the  inner  rock  was  rugged  and  covered 
with  trees  of  unequal  growth.  To  reach  this  summit 
would  not  render  my  return  easier;  but  its  greater  eleva 
tion  would  extend  my  view,  and  perhaps  furnish  a  spot 
from  which  the  whole  horizon  was  conspicuous. 

As  I  had  traversed  the  outer,  I  now  explored  the  inner 
edge  of  this  hill.  At  length  I  reached  a  spot  where  the 
chasm,  separating  the  two  rocks,  was  narrower  than  at 
any  other  part.  At  first  view,  it  seemed  as  if  it  were 
possible  to  leap  over  it,  but  a  nearer  examination  showed 
me  that  the  passage  was  impracticable.  So  far  as  my 
eye  could  estimate  it,  the  breadth  was  thirty  or  forty  feet. 
I  could  scarcely  venture  to  look  beneath.  The  height  was 
dizzy,  and  the  walls,  which  approached  each  other  at  top, 
receded  at  the  bottom,  so  as  to  form  the  resemblance  of 
an  immense  hall,  lighted  from  a  rift,  which  some  convul 
sion  of  nature  had  made  in  the  roof.  Where  I  stood 
there  ascended  a  perpetual  mist,  occasioned  by  a  torrent 
that  dashed  along  the  rugged  pavement  below. 

From  these  objects  I  willingly  turned  my  eye  upon 
those  before  and  above  me,  on  the  opposite  ascent.  A 
stream,  rushing  from  above,  fell  into  a  cavity,  which  its 
own  force  seemed  gradually  to  have  made.  The  noise 
and  the  motion  equally  attracted  my  attention.  There 
was  a  desolate  and  solitary  grandeur  in  the  scene,  en 
hanced  by  the  circumstances  in  which  it  was  beheld,  and 
by  the  perils  through  which  I  had  recently  passed,  that 
had  never  before  been  witnessed  by  me. 

A  sort  of  sanctity  and  awe  environed  it,  owing  to  the 
consciousness  of  absolute  and  utter  loneliness.  It  was 
probable  that  human  feet  had  never  before  gained  this  re 
cess,  that  human  eyes  had  never  been  fixed  upon  these 
gushing  waters.  The  aboriginal  inhabitants  had  no  mo- 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  59 

lives  to  lead  them  into  caves  like  this,  and  ponder  on  the 
verge  of  such  a  precipice.  Their  successors  were  still 
less  likely  to  have  wandered  hither.  Since  the  birth  of 
this  continent,  I  was  probably  the  first  who  had  deviated 
thus  remotely  from  the  customary  paths  of  men. 

While  musing  upon  these  ideas,  my  eye  was  fixed  upon 
the  foaming  current.  At  length,  I  looked  upon  the  rocks 
which  confined  and  embarrassed  its  course.  I  admired 
their  fantastic  shapes,  and  endless  irregularities.  Pass 
ing  from  one  to  the  other  of  these,  my  attention  lighted,  at 
length,  as  if  by  some  magical  transition,  on — a  human 
countenance. 

My  surprise  was  so  abrupt,  and  my  sensations  so  tu 
multuous,  that  I  forgot  for  a  moment  the  perilous  nature 
of  my  situation.  I  loosened  my  hold  of  a  pine  branch, 
which  had  been  hitherto  one  of  my  supports,  and  almost 
started  from  my  seat.  Had  my  station  been,  in  a  slight 
degree  nearer  the  brink  than  it  was,  I  should  have  fallen 
headlong  into  the  abyss. 

To  meet  a  human  creature,  even  on  that  side  of  the 
chasm  which  I  occupied,  would  have  been  wholly  ad 
verse  to  my  expectation.  My  station  was  accessible  by 
no  other  road  than  that  through  which  I  had  passed,  and 
no  motives  were  imaginable  by  which  others  could  be 
prompted  to  explore  this  road.  But  he  whom  I  now  be 
held,  was  seated  where  it  seemed  impossible  for  human 
efforts  to  have  placed  him. — 

But  this  affected  me  but  little  in  comparison  with  other 
incidents.  Not  only  the  countenance  was  human,  but  in 
spite  of  shaggy  and  tangled  locks,  and  an  air  of  melan 
choly  wild  ness,  I  speedily  recognized  the  features  of  the 
fugitive  Clithero  ! 

One  glance  was  not  sufficient  to  make  me  acquainted 
with  this  scene.  I  had  come  hither  partly  in  pursuit  of 


60  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

this  man,  but  some  casual  appendage  of  his  person,  some 
thing  which  should  indicate  his  past  rather  than  his  pre 
sent  existence,  was  all  that  I  hoped  to  find.  That  he 
should  be  found  alive  in  this  desert ;  that  he  should  have 
gained  this  summit,  access  to  which  was  apparently  im 
possible,  were  scarcely  within  the  boundaries  of  belief. 

His  scanty  and  coarse  garb  had  been  nearly  rent  away 
by  brambles  and  thorns,  his  arms,  bosom,  and  cheek  were 
overgrown  and  half  concealed  by  hair.  There  was  some 
what  in  his  attitude  and  looks  denoting  more  than  an 
archy  of  thoughts  and  passions.  His  rueful,  ghastly,  and 
immoveable  eyes,  testified  not  only  that  his  mind  was 
ravaged  by  despair,  but  that  he  was  pinched  with  fa 
mine. 

These  proofs  of  his  misery  thrilled  to  my  inmost  heart. 
Horror  and  shuddering  invaded  me  as  I  stood  gazing 
upon  him,  and,  for  a  time,  I  was  without  the  power  of 
deliberating  on  the  measures  which  it  was  my  duty  to 
adopt  for  his  relief.  The  first  suggestion  was,  by  calling, 
to  inform  him  of  my  presence.  I  knew  not  what  coun 
sel  or  comfort  to  offer.  By  what  words  to  bespeak  his 
attention,  or  by  what  topics  to  mollify  his  direful  passions 
I  knew  not.  Though  so  near,  the  gulf  by  which  we 
were  separated  was  impassable.  All  that  I  could  do  was 
to  speak. 

My  surprise  and  my  horror  were  still  strong  enough 
to  give  a  shrill  and  piercing  tone  to  my  voice.  The  chasm 
and  the  rocks  loudened  and  reverberated  my  accents 
while  I  exclaimed — Man  !  Clithero  ! 

My  summons  was  effectual.  He  shook  ofi  his  trance 
in  a  moment.  He  had  been  stretched  upon  his  back, 
with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  a  craggy  projecture  above,  as  if 
he  were  in  momentary  expectation  of  its  fall,  and  crush 
ing  him  to  atoms.  Now  he  started  on  his  feet.  He  was 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  61 

conscious  of  the  voice,  but  not  of  the  quarter  whence  it 
came.  He  was  looking  anxiously  around  when  I  again 
spoke — Look  hither:  It  is  I  who  called. 

He  looked.  Astonishment  was  now  mingled  with 
every  other  dreadful  meaning  in  his  visage.  He  clasped 
his  hands  together  and  bent  forward,  as  if  to  satisfy  him 
self  that  his  summoner  was  real.  At  the  next  moment 
he  drew  back,  placed  his  hands  upon  his  breast,  and  fixed 
his  eyes  on  the  ground. 

This  pause  was  not  likely  to  be  broken  but  by  me.  I 
was  preparing  again  to  speak.  To  be  more  distinctly 
heard,  I  advanced  closer  to  the  brink.  During  this  action, 
my  eye  was  necessarily  withdrawn  from  him.  Having 
gained  a  somewhat  nearer  station,  I  looked  again,  but — 
he  was  gone ! 


62  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 


BY  ROBERT  WALN. 


'T  is  the  break  of  day,  and  cloudless  weather, 
The  eager  dogs  are  all  roaming  together, 
The  moor-cock  is  flitting  across  the  heather, 

Up,  rouse  from  your  slumbers, 
Away  ! 

No  vapor  encumbers  the  day  ; 

Wind  the  echoing  horn, 

For  the  waking  morn 
Peeps  forth  in  its  mantle  of  gray. 

The  wild  boar  is  shaking  his  dewy  bristle, 
The  partridge  is  sounding  his  morning  whistle, 
The  red-deer  is  bounding  o'er  the  thistle, 

Up,  rouse  from  your  slumbers, 
Away  ! 

No  vapor  encumbers  the  day  ; 

Wind  the  echoing  horn, 

For  the  waking  morn 
Peeps  forth  in  its  mantle  of  gray. 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  63 


©IF 

BY  HORACE  BINNEY. 

J 

IF  the  reputation  of  the  living  were  the  only  source 
from  which  the  honour  of  our  race  is  derived,  the  death 
of  an  eminent  man  would  be  a  subject  of  immitigable 
grief.  It  is  the  lot  of  few  to  attain  great  distinction,  before 
Death  has  placed  them  above  the  distorting  medium, 
through  wThich  men  are  seen  by  their  cotemporaries.  It 
is  the  lot  of  still  fewer,  to  attain  it  by  qualities  which 
exalt  the  character  of  our  species.  Envy  denies  the  ca 
pacity  ofs  ome,  slander  stigmatizes  the  principles  of 
others,  fashion  gives  an  occasional  currency  to  false  pre 
tensions,  and  the  men  by  whom  the  age  is  hereafter  to 
be  known,  are  often  too  much  in  advance  of  it  to  be  dis 
cernible  by  the  common  eye.  All  these  causes  combine 
to  reduce  the  stock  of  living  reputation,  as  much  below 
the  real  merits  of  the  age,  as  it  is  below  the  proper  dig 
nity  of  man;  and  he  who  should  wish  to  elevate  his  spirit 
by  examples  of  wisdom,  of  genius,  and  of  patriotism,  if 
he  could  not  derive  them  from  the  illustrious  dead,  would 
have  better  reason  than  the  son  of  Philip,  to  weep  at  the 
limits  which  confined  him.  To  part  with  the  great  and 
good  from  a  world  which  thus  wants  them,  and  not  to  re 
ceive  thereafter  the  refreshing  influence  of  their  purified 
and  exalted  fame  would  be  to  make  Death  almost  the 
master  of  our  virtue,  as  he  appears  to  be  of  our  perish 
able  bodies.  The  living  and  dead  are,  however,  but  one 


64  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

family,  and  the  moral  and  intellectual  affluence  of  those 
who  have  gone  before,  remains  to  enrich  their  posterity. 
The  great  fountain  of  human  character  lies  beyond  the 
confines  of  life,  where  the  passions  cannot  invade  it.  It 
is  in  that  region,  that  among  innumerable  proofs  of  man's 
nothingness,  are  preserved  the  records  of  his  immortal 
descent  and  destiny.  It  is  there  that  the  spirits  of  all 
ages,  after  their  sun  is  set,  are  gathered  into  one  firma 
ment,  to  shed  their  unquenchable  lights  upon  us.  It  is 
in  the  great  assembly  of  the  dead,  that  the  Philosopher 
and  the  Patriot,  who  have  passed  from  life,  complete  their 
benefaction  to  mankind,  by  becoming  imperishable  ex 
amples  of  virtue.  Beyond  the  circle  of  those  private 
affections  which  cannot  choose  but  shrink  from  the  in 
roads  of  Death,  there  is  no  grief  then  for  the  departure 
of  the  eminently  good  and  wise.  No  tears  but  those  of 
gratitude  should  fall  into  the  graves  of  such  as  are  gather 
ed  in  honour  to  their  forefathers.  By  their  now  unenvied 
virtues  and  talents,  they  have  become  a  new  possession 
to  their  posterity,  and  when  we  commemorate  them,  and 
pay  the  debt  which  is  their  due,  we  increase  and  confirm 
our  own  inheritance. 

It  has  been  said,  that  the  panegyrists  of  great  men  can 
rarely  direct  the  eye  with  safety  to  their  early  years,  for 
fear  of  lighting  upon  the  traces  of  some  irregular  passion. 
But  to  the  subject  of  this  discourse,  may  with  justice  be 
applied,  the  praise  of  the  Chancellor  D'Aguesseau,  that 
he  was  never  known  to  take  a  single  step  out  of  the  nar 
row  path  of  Wisdom,  and  that  although  sometimes  it  was 
remarked  he  had  been  young,  and  it  was  for  the  purpose 
not  of  palliating  a  defect,  but  of  doing  greater  honour  to 
his  virtues. 

Of  the  early  life  of  Judge  Tilghman  few  of  his  cotempo- 
raries  remain  to  speak;  but  those  few  attest,  what  the  har- 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  65 

mony  of  his  whole  character  in  later  years  would  infer, 
that  his  youth  gave  presage  by  its  sobriety  and  exempla 
ry  rectitude,  of  all  that  we  witnessed  and  admired  in  the 
maturity  of  his  character.  It  is  great  praise  to  say  of  so 
excellent  a  Judge,  that  there  was  no  contrariety  between 
his  judgments  and  his  life — that  there  was  a  perfect  con 
sent  between  his  public  and  his  private  manners,  that  he 
was  an  engaging  example  of  all  he  taught — and  that  no 
reproach  which  in  his  multifarious  employment,  he  was 
compelled  to  utter  against  all  the  forms  of  injustice,  public 
and  private,  social  and  domestic,  against  all  violations  of 
law,  from  crime  down  to  those  irregularities  at  which, 
from  general  infirmity,  there  is  a  general  connivance — 
in  no  instance,  did  the  sting  of  his  reproach  wound  his 
own  bosom.  Yet  it  was  in  his  life  only,  and  not  in  his 
pretensions  that  you  discerned  this  his  fortunate  superio 
rity  to  others. 

In  his  private  walks  he  was  the  most  unpretending  of 
men.  He  bore  constantly  about  him  those  characteristics 
of  true  greatness,  simplicity  and  modesty.  Shall  I  add, 
that  the  memory  of  all  his  acquaintance  may  be  chal 
lenged  to  repeat  from  his  most  unrestrained  conversation, 
one  word  or  allusion,  that  might  not  have  fallen  with 
propriety  upon  the  ear  of  the  most  fastidious  delicacy  ? 
His  manners  in  society  were  unusually  attractive  to  those 
who  were  so  fortunate  as  to  possess  his  esteem;  and  they 
were  the  reverse  to  none,  except  those  who  had  given 
him  cause  to  withhold  it.  Their  great  charm  was  sin 
cerity;  and  though  unassuming  and  retired,  they  never 
failed  to  show  the  impress  of  that  refinement  in  which 
he  had  passed  his  life. 

It  is  no  longer  wonderful  that  this  venerated  man  per 
formed  his  duties  to  Universal  acceptance,  when  we  dis 
cern  the  spirit,  better  far  than  the  genius  of  Socrates,  from 

6* 


66  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

which  he  asked  counsel.  The  ancients  would  have  said 
of  him,  that  he  lived  in  the  presence  of  all  the  Deities, 
since  prudence  was  never  absent  from  him.  The  holders 
of  a  better  faith  must  say,  that  it  was  to  no  poetical  Deity, 
nor  to  the  counsels,  but  to  that  "  grace"  which  his  sup 
plications  invoked,  that  he  owed  his  protection  from  most 
of  the  lapses  to  which  fallible  man  is  subject.  That 
"  remnant"  of  life  to  which  his  last  memorial  refers,  un 
fortunately  for  us,  was  short  as  he  had  predicted;  but  he 
walked  it  as  he  had  done  all  that  went  before,  according 
to  his  devout  aspiration.  He  continued  to  preside  in  the 
Supreme  Court,  with  his  accustomed  dignity  and  effect, 
until  the  succeeding  winter,  when  his  constitution  finally 
gave  way,  and,  after  a  short  confinement,  on  Monday  the 
30th  of  April,  1827,  he  closed  his  eyes  for  ever.  It  will 
be  long,  very  long,  before  we  shall  open  ours,  upon  a 
wiser  judge,  a  sounder  lawyer,  a  riper  scholar,  a  purer 
man,  or  a  truer  gentleman.  The  private  life  of  this  emi 
nent  man,  was  the  reflection  of  an  unclouded  mind,  and 
of  a  conscience  void  of  offence;  and  such  external  vicis 
situdes  as  marked  it  did  but  ripen  his  virtues  for  their 
appropriate  scene  hereafter.  The  praise  of  his  public 
career,  is  that  it  has  been  barren  of  those  incidents  which 
arrest  the  attention  by  agitating  the  passions  of  mankind. 
If  it  has  grown  into  an  unquestioned  truth,  that  the  poor 
est  annals  belong  to  those  epochs  which  have  been  the 
richest  in  virtue  and  happiness,  it  may  well  be  admitted 
that  the  best  Judge  for  the  people,  is  he  who  impercepti 
bly  maintains  them  in  their  rights  and  leaves  few  striking 
events  for  biography.  His  course  does  not  exhibit  the 
magnificent  variety  of  the  Ocean,  sometimes  uplifted 
to  the  skies,  at  others  retiring  into  its  darkest  caves;  at 
one  moment  gay  with  the  ensigns  of  power  and  wealth, 
and  at  another  strewing  its  shores  with  the  melancholy 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  67 

fragments  of  shipwreck ;  but  it  is  the  equal  current  of  a 
majestic  river,  which  safely  bears  upon  its  bosom  the  rich 
es  of  the  land,  and  reads  its  history  in  the  smiling  cities 
and  villages  that  are  reflected  from  its  unvarying  surface. 
Such  is  the  praise  of  the  late  Chief  Justice  Tilghman. 
He  merited,  by  his  public  works  and  by  his  private  vir 
tues,  the  respect  and  affection  of  his  countrymen  ;  and 
the  best  wish  for  his  country  and  his  office  is,  that  his  man 
tle  may  have  fallen  upon  his  successor. 


68  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 


BY  THOMAS  FISHER. 

THE  transient  and  eventful  day 
Was  fading  pauselessly  away; 
And  now  the  dim  and  sulphury  cloud, 
That  form'd  the  battle's  thunder-shroud, 
Far  stretch' d  along  the  stormy  sky 
Above  the  plains  of  Muscovy. 

The  battle  ceased,  and  all  was  still 

On  the  wide  plain  ;  o'er  wood,  and  hill, 

And  valley  of  the  rushing  stream, 

Not  an  alarum-gun  was  fired ; 
Naught  but  their  twinkling  lances'  gleam 

Told  that  the  northern  hosts  retired. 
A  glow  of  red  and  shadowy  light 
Was  lingering  in  the  horizon  west, 
And  lit  the  curtains  of  the  night 
Around  the  day-star's  place  of  rest. 
The  length' ning  lines  of  watch-fires  rose, 
The  wearied  armies  sought  repose, 
The  soldier,  stretch'd  upon  the  soil, 
Courted  oblivion  of  his  toil. 

Upon  the  morning  of  that  day, 
The  far-responding  reveille 
Had  summon' d  in  embattled  line 
The  leagued  nations  of  the  Rhine. 
The  impulse  of  one  mighty  mind 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  69 

Had  led  those  glittering  legions  forth, 

And  bade  them  seek  in  realms  afar, 
'Neath  the  proud  turrets  of  the  north, 

The  glory  and  the  boon  of  war. 

There  moved  the  phalanx  of  the  brave, 

Far  swelling  as  the  ocean-wave 

Of  the  dark  Arctic,  when  it  rolls 

Amid  the  icebergs  of  the  poles. 

On  their  proud  frontlets  you  might  trace, 

Adown  the  far  historic  page, 

The  character  of  many  a  race, 

The  chivalry  of  many  an  age. 

The  sons  of  sires  whom  Caesar  led, 

The  Lithuanian  and  the  Goth, 

Were  marching  with  a  measured  tread 

In  the  same  mighty  sabaoth, 

Beside  the  noblest  youth  of  France — 

All  sharers  in  the  same  romance. 

There  was  young  recklessness  of  life, 

And  lofty  fearlessness  of  eye, 
That  gloried  in  the  fiercest  strife, 

Nor  cared,  as  heroes  live,  to  die. 
And  there  the  veteran's  war-wrought  form, 

The  soldier  of  Marengo's  field, 
Inured  to  battle,  and  to  storm, 

Of  lion-heart,  unused  to  yield: 
That  soldier,  who  in  early  youth 

Had  met  the  Arab's  whirlwind-lance, 
.Still  follows  here  with  changeless  truth, 

The  yet  ascending  star  of  France. 
Amid  his  chosen  chiefs  of  war, 

Napoleon  from  a  height  survey'd 
The  mighty  masses  of  the  Czar, 

In  countless  density  array'd ; 


70  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

And  thought,  as  rose  the  cloudless  sun, 
'Twas  thus — when  Austerlitz  was  won. 

Now  'tis  the  evening; — on  the  plain 

Are  strown  the  battle-drifted  slain  ; 

The  tawny  children  of  the  Moor, 

The  Calmuck,  the  Carinthian  boor, 

The  belted  Cossack  of  the  Don, 

The  plumed  knight  of  Arragon, 

The  emblem  lion  and  the  bear, 

Have  met  in  death's  stern  conflict  there ; 

And  many  a  youth  of  fearless  eye 

Beneath  this  dark  and  storm-swept  sky 

Reclines  upon  the  turf  to  die  : 

Still,  o'er  the  soldier's  dying  hour, 

Memory  bestows  her  magic  power, 

And  lights  the  flickering  lamp  of  life 

As  though  its  streams  were  fresh  and  rife  ; 

For  each  has  left  a  vacant  hearth, 

His  loves,  the  valley  of  his  birth, 

His  altar,  and  his  childhood's  home, 

The  kindling  of  a  mother's  eye, 
When  lust  of  conquest  bade  him  roam 

To  march  beneath  a  distant  sky — 
The  peasant  of  the  winding  Rhine 

Has  wandered  from  his  vine-wrought  bowers, 
The  shepherd  of  the  Appenine 

Has  left  his  flock — his  mountain  flowers  ; 
Yon  dresser  of  the  olive-grove 
Has  torn  him  from  his  plighted  love — 
Upon  Italia's  hills  afar 
She  gazes  on  the  evening  star, 
And  tunes  for  him  the  sweet  guitar, 
But  her  sad  faithfulness  is  vain — 
That  youth  will  ne'er  return  again ; 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  71 

When  the  last  rallying  charge  of  horse 
Spur'd  proudly  on  o'er  many  a  corse, 
His  form  was  crush' d — upon  his  brow 
The  dews  of  death  are  falling  now  : 
Ere  yet  the  coming  dawn  of  day 
Shall  wake  again  the  reveille, 
His  life's  last  impulse  will  be  o'er, 
He'll  hear  the  bugle-note  no  more  ; 
He  may  not  meet  his  blushing  maid 
Beneath  the  bowering  myrtle  shade —         , 
Siberia's  ravens  riot  here, 
In  gather' d  flights,  the  wintry  year, 
And  ere  the  far  return  of  spring, 
His  bones  are  bleach'd  and  glistening. 

But  soon  the  sun  will  light  again 
The  battle  on  this  reeking  plain ; 
Italia's  gayest,  bravest  knight, 
The  wildest  meteor  of  the  fight, 
Leads  on  his  clouds  of  prancing  steeds, 
His  dreamers  of  chivalrous  deeds — 
The  farthest  banners  as  they  float 
Shall  tremble  to  the  trumpet-note, 
And  seas  of  nodding  plumes  shall  wave 
To  the  firm  foot-fall  of  the  brave. 
Gallia's  untiring  eagles  fly 
Yet  onward,  'neath  the  northern  sky, 
Where  coldly  shines  the  pivot  star 
O'er  the  bronzed  towers  of  the  Czar : 
But  thence  those  eagles  shall  be  driven 
By  the  dread  tempest  winds  of  heaven  : 
For  they  shall  find  a  fiercer  foe 
E'en  than  the  desert-nurtured  men ; 
And  their  proud  bearers  shall  lie  low, 
Entomb'd  in  wastes  of  wolf-traced  snow. 


72  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 


BY  ROBERT  WALSH. 


THERE  is  an  emphatic  moral  in  the  statements  of  Ma 
dame  de  Saussure,  concerning  the  unhappiness  of  her 
celebrated  friend.  The  very  splendour  of  her  endow 
ments,  her  triumphs  as  an  author,  her  importance  and 
lustre  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  not  merely  failed  to  se 
cure  for  her  "  our  being's  end  and  aim,"  but  contributed 
to  deprive  her  of  all  tranquillity  and  contentment.  Her 
talents,  says  her  biographer,  penetrated  through  every  fea 
ture  ;  they  sparkled  in  her  eyes,  marked  her  slightest 
phrases,  imparted  a  subduing  eloquence  to  her  kindness 
and  her  pity,  but  embittered  her  existence.  "  Her  heart 
was  more  alive  than  that  of  any  other  person ;  but  she 
suffered  more  vividly,  and  the  intensity  of  her  sorrow 
was  dreadful.  She  gave  us  the  idea  of  a  superior  in 
telligence,  whom  a  jealous  fate  had  subjected  to  the  mise 
ries  and  illusions  of  this  world,  and  whose  high  prerog 
ative  only  rendered  her  more  sensible  of  the  emptiness 
and  wretchedness  of  human  life,"  She  underwent  all 
the  fugitive  and  the  fixed  miseries  of  the  heart;  and  such 
was  her  own  impression  of  the  disadvantage  of  her  lot, 
that  when  she  observed  a  manifestation  of  wit  in  her 
daughter,  she  earnestly  warned  her  against  seeking  ce 
lebrity. 

The  spirit  of  Madame  de  Stael  was,  in  fact,  morbidly 
restless;  her  sensibility  lawless  and  excessive;  her  ambi- 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  73 

tion  premature  and  exorbitant.  Her  passions  and  habits 
had  been  subjected  to  no  discipline.  Whether  from  ob 
stinacy  or  delusion,  she  pursued,  on  every  side,  unattain 
able  ends.  She  allowed  her  potent  imagination  to  keep 
her  in  the  clouds.  The  incessant  attempt  to  pass  the 
"  flaming  bounds  of  space  and  time,"  and  to  soar  upon 
"the  seraph-wings  of  ecstacy,"  could  not  but  end  in  bit 
ter  chagrin,  or  a  fatal  catastrophe.  She  married,  first  a 
worthy  man,  whom  she  did  not  please  to  love,  and  with 
whom  she  held  but  little  intercourse.  The  liaisons,  or 
ties  of  friendship,  platonic,  or  more  than  platonic,  by 
which  she  was  connected  with  the  Narbonnes,  the  Schle- 
gels,  and  the  Constants,  being  precarious,  transitory,  and 
ambiguous,  could  not  satisfy  her  aspirations,  if  they  left 
her  conscience  at  rest. 

Her  face  may  have  had  "  intellectual  beauty,"  and  her 
exterior,  when  animated  by  the  play  of  her  faculties, 
ceased  to  be  repulsive;  but  the  whole  woman  was  not  of 
the  description  that  awakens  and  perpetuates  the  sublime 
passion,  of  which  she  coveted  to  be  the  object.  She  ex 
cited  only  admiration — the  love  which  she  sought,  like 
Sappho,  was  not  to  be  won  by  her  mental  accomplish 
ments,  and  she  had  too  much  acuteness,  and  fervour  of 
fancy  and  affection,  to  remain  blind  to  the  absence  of  re 
ciprocity.  On  that  head  of  romantic  passion  and  sympa 
thetic  union,  she  continued  deeply  excitable,  and  strongly 
imaginative,  beyond  the  period  of  age  when  those  who 
have  been  gifted  with  the  kind  of  attractions  which  she 
lacked,  lose  much  of  their  power  and  their  susceptibility. 
Madame  de  Saussure  tells  that  there  was  "  a  passion,  or 
at  least  emotion,  in  all  her  attachments," — that  they  ap 
peared  to  differ  "  rather  in  intensity  than  in  kind,"  and 
were  "  naturally  expansive,  ardent,  impetuous,  and  even 
stormy;"  that  for  a  long  time  "  she  comprehended  only 
7 


74  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

her  own  manner  of  loving,  in  whatever  relation,  and 
refused  to  believe  the  existence  of  sincere  sentiments, 
that  did  not  express  themselves  like  hers-"  and  that  she 
"  revolted  against  the  obstacles  which  the  frame  of  soci 
ety,  and  often  human  indolence,  oppose  to  the  enjoy 
ments  of  the  heart."  It  is  obvious,  that  with  such  a  tem 
perament,  and  such  ideas,  the  severest  disappointments 
and  mortifications  were  inevitable. 

Madame  de  Saussure  elsewhere  informs  us  that  her 
friend  "  profoundly  lamented  the  lot  of  women,  and  more 
particularly  pitied  those  who  were  endued  with  eminent 
faculties,  when  denied  the  happiness  of  wedded  love,  in  her 
eyes  of  all  the  greatest."  It  appeared  to  her,  in  this  case, 
"  equally  difficult  for  them  to  confine  themselves  within  the 
narrow  limits  of  their  fate,  or  to  overstep  those  limits  with 
out  exposing  themselves  to  pungent  sorrows."  Her  own 
sad  experience  was  the  teacher  of  this  solid  wisdom. — In 
secretly  espousing,  at  last,  a  young  officer — M.  Rocca, 
claiming  compassion  for  his  wounds  and  debility — she  at 
tempted  to  fill  up  the  aching  void  of  her  soul.  Because 
she  believed  that  she  had  inspired,  or  because  she  fondly 
hoped  to  raise,  the  kind  and  degree  of  love  and  tender 
ness  of  which  she  deemed  herself  still  capable,  she  incur 
red  the  afflictive  duty  of  watching  and  assuaging  the  ebb 
of  a  life  which  was  to  become  as  precious  as  her  own. 
Ambition  we  have  specified  as  one  of  the  causes  of  her 
comparative  infelicity.  She  was  not  content  to  shine  and 
rule  in  the  republic  of  letters  alone  ; — she  sighed  and 
struggled  for  power  and  distinction  in  every  exalted 
sphere  ;  she  would  have  conquered  Napoleon,  legislated 
for  France,  prescribed  for  Russia  and  Britain  ;  in  short, 
she  meddled  emulously  and  anxiously  with  all  sorts  of 
public  affairs.  The  world  may  be  indebted  to  this  extra 
vasation  of  female  thoughts  and  desires  for  much  of  the 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  „  75 

pith  of  her  Considerations  on  the  French  Revolution, 
but  it  helped  to  mar  her  own  welfare. 

The  support  of  Christian  piety  was  wanting  to  Ma 
dame  de  Stael,  as  well  as  the  anchor  of  connubial  love. 
Her  friend  mentions,  indeed,  that  from  the  epoch  of  her 
father's  death,  her  religious  opinions  became  more  deci 
ded;  "the  vague  of  a  poetic  belief  ceased  to  satisfy  her 
cravings;  she  required  a  firm  faith  in  that  promise  of  im 
mortality  which  alone  saved  her  from  despair  ;  she  had 
need  of  being  a  Christian,  because  her  father  died  a  Chris 
tian  ;  in  her  mortal  struggle,  she  repelled  the  terrors  of 
death,  by  the  thought  that  she  was  going  to  rejoin  her  fa 
ther."  This  was,  truly,  a  close  contraction  of  the  Chris 
tian  faith  and  hope;  too  close  for  a  person  of  her  liabilities 
and  moral  constitution. 

It  is  not  to  her  genius,  or  to  fortune,  that  we  must  im 
pute  the  miscarriage  of  her  endeavours  after  happiness. 
Her  example  is  full  of  admonition  against  immoderate 
and  incongruous  avidities  and  efforts.  Talents  form  a 
productive  blessing  for  a  female,  if  they  are  cultivated 
and  applied  conformably  to  her  plain  natural  destination: 
simple  domestic  life  is  a  safe,  and  not  a  very  narrow 
sphere,  of  duty  and  pleasure.  When  the  actual  condi 
tion  of  the  two  sexes  in  civilized  society  is  sedately  and 
broadly  examined,  the  lot  of  each  is  seen  to  have  its  in 
conveniences  and  its  advantages ;  and,  perhaps,  superior 
ity  cannot  be  asserted  for  either  on  the  whole. 

With  regard  to  relative  mental  powers,  wild  specula 
tion  and  superfluous  ingenuity  have  been  lavished  on  both 
sides  of  the  question.  In  endowing  each,  Providence 
has  distinguished  the  share  and  quality,  and  separated  the 
uses,  in  his  general  economy.  We  would  refer  to  Han 
nah  More's  «  Comparative  View  of  the  Sexes,"  for  a  ra 
tional  and  discriminative  discussion  of  this  topic.  In 


76  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

adducing  cases  of  female  scholarship,  we  have  shown 
that  females  are  at  least  capable  of  becoming  learned  in 
the  ultimate  degree,  but  we  have  not  meant  to  recom 
mend  a  classical  education  to  our  countrywomen.  The 
German  professor,  Meiners,  well  observes,  that  in  the 
sixteenth,  and  first  half  of  the  seventeenth  centuries,  the 
modern  languages  were  unpolished,  and  had  produced 
very  few  masterpieces  ;  and  therefore,  the  women  of 
genius,  who  were  desirous  of  cultivating  their  under 
standings  and  their  hearts,  were  obliged  to  learn  the  an 
cient  languages,  in  whose  works  alone  they  could  find  the 
treasures  of  useful  and  ornamental  knowledge.  This  ne 
cessity  has  disappeared;  the  literature  of  each  of  the 
modern  tongues,  is  sufficiently  refined  and  comprehensive. 
Our  state  of  society,  and  the  oifices  of  an  American  wife 
and  mother,  are,  moreover,  such,  that  the  time  requisite 
for  the  proper  acquisition  of  the  Greek  and  Latin,  cannot 
be  afforded,  and  the  application,  or  general  usefulness  of 
this  knowledge,  would  be  much  more  limited  than  it  is 
in  Europe. 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  77 


BIPBUIH©,  ASJIB  A33WMS5* 


BY  FREDERICK  S.  ECKARD. 


ONE  bright  autumnal  day,  a  weak  old  man 
Had  slowly  totter'd  to  the  mountain  side, 
As  if  once  more  his  aged  eye  would  scan 
The  prospect,  ere  the  founts  of  life  were  dried; 
When,  kindling  at  the  view,  his  glowing  soul 
Pour'd  forth  the  feelings  it  could  not  control. 

"Oh,  parent  earth!  when  first  the  laughing  spring 
Came  with  her  sweet-toned  winds  and  rosy  hours, 
And  bade  the  sky  a  golden  mantle  fling, 
To  cheer  the  hills,  and  brightening  world  of  flowers, 
Diffusing  each  clear  hue  the  sunbeam  weaves, 
And  calling  forth  the  race  of  forest  leaves  : 

"  In  that  pure  season,  I,  thy  fervent  child, 
Brought  my  first  offering  to  thy  cloudless  gleam  ; 
A  soul,  whose  thoughts  like  thee  were  undefiled, 
And  feelings  gushing  as  the  mountain  stream  ; 
With  these  my  treasures,  and  in  lavish  mirth, 
I  came  to  greet  thy  spring,  oh,  parent  earth  ! 

"  Well  I  remember  the  clear  dream  which  rose, 
Hope's  joyous  prototype  of  after  days, 
Where,  like  thy  vernal  landscape's  bright  repose, 
Life's  vision'd  beauty  met  my  ardent  gaze  ; 
Music  around,  and  odours  on  the  breeze, 
And  blossoms  blushing  from  the  leafy  trees. 
7* 


78  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

"  Years  cast  their  shadow  o'er  me,  and  once  more, 
Maternal  earth !  I  came,  thy  alter'd  child, 
My  thanks  for  ripen'd  soul  and  strength  to  pour, 
When  summer  in  its  full  refulgence  smiled ; 
Like  thy  unfolded  buds,  my  dream  of  youth 
Had  brighten' d  to  the  certainty  of  truth. 

"  Yet  death  had  crossed  my  path ;  the  fragile  flowers, 
Round  which  my  heart  its  love  had  closest  twined, 
When  not  a  cloud  was  on  the  sunny  hours, 
Heard  his  strong  mandate,  and  in  gloom  declined; 
But  time,  the  unerring  healer !  had  represt 
My  selfish  mourning  for  the  freed  and  blest. 

"  And  other  wreaths  enchain'd  me ;  I  had  led 
My  fond  soul's  idol  to  the  holy  shrine, 
And  joy  its  heavenly  glow  before  us  spread, 
Colouring  existence  with  a  hue  divine ; 
But  that  long  since  hath  past,  and  now  I  stand 
Summon' d  by  voices  from  the  spirit  land. 

"  Earth,  take  thy  kindred  dust,  for  years  have  laid 
A  withering  curse  upon  my  pulse  and  limb  ; 
Even  now,  a  dweller  itf  the  realm  of  shade, 
My  lamp  of  life  is  fading  fast,  and  dim ; 
And  my  quick  spirit  pines  for  that  far  shore, 
To  which  its  brightest  dreams  are  gone  before." 

The  old  man's  voice  was  hush'd — it  seem'd  that  sleep, 

With  blessed  calmness,  o'er  his  senses  came ; 

Yes — and  for  ever  shall  that  slumber  keep 

Its  iron  grasp  upon  his  wearied  frame ; 

Existence  was  fulfill'd,  the  soul  had  fled, 

And  dull  oblivion  triumph'd  o'er  the  dead. 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  79 


IFH3&IS 


BY  JOSEPH  HOPKINSON. 


IN  recommending  to  our  fellow-citizens  the  cultiva 
tion  of  a  general  taste  in  the  fine  arts,  and  a  liberal  atten 
tion  to  every  institution  calculated  to  promote  it,  we 
should  not  overlook  some  of  its  most  interesting  uses  to 
society.  Every  man  who  is  a  member  of  that  society 
and  has  influence  and  power  in  it,  either  by  his  rank,  his 
education,  or  his  wealth,  has  a  deep  interest,  perhaps  a 
serious  duty,  to  attend  to  on  this  subject.  It  is  no  new 
doctrine  to  assert  that  the  fine  arts  are  of  great  impor 
tance  to  the  morals  of  the  community.  Their  influence, 
in  this  respect,  may  reach  where  the  voice  of  the  preach 
er  is  never  heard,  and  the  lectures  of  the  moralist  never 
read.  By  providing  an  innocent,  an  interesting,  and  dig 
nified  source  of  pleasure,  they  not  only  draw  the  mind 
from  gross  and  vulgar  gratifications;  but  finally  so  entire 
ly  absorb  and  purify  it;  so  quicken  its  sensibility  and  re 
fine  its  taste,  that  pleasures  more  gross  lose  their  attrac 
tions  and  become  disgusting.  Men,  whose  inclination 
and  fortune  withdraw  them  from  scenes  of  active  and  ne 
cessary  business,  still  require  occupation  and  amusement. 
The  mind  that  is  stagnant  loses  its  vital  principle,  and 
sinks  either  into  a  distressing  lethargy,  or  low  and  cor 
rupting  vices.  What  a  resource,  what  a  refuge  is  open^ 
ed  to  such  men  in  the  fascinating  gardens  of  Taste. 


80  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

"  Thou  mak'st  all  nature  beauty  to  his  eye, 
Or  music  to  his  ear;  well  pleas'd  he  scans 
The  goodly  prospect;  and  with  inward  smiles 
Treads  the  gay  verdure  of  the  painted  plain; 
Beholds  the  azure  canopy  of  heaven, 
And  living  lamps  that  overarch  his  head 
"With  more  than  regal  splendor;  bends  his  ears 
To  the  full  choir  of  water,  air,  and  earth; 
Nor  heeds  the  pleasing  errours  of  his  thoughts, 
"  So  sweet  he  feels  their  influence  to  attract 
"  The  fixed  soul;  to  brighten  the  dull  glooms 
Of  care,  and  make  the  destin'd  road  of  life 
Delightful  to  his  feet." 

Such  are  the  pleasures  of  a  mind  purified  by  virtue, 
and  cultivated  by  taste.  Can  a  being  capable  of  such 
sublime  contemplations,  and  commanding  such  high 
sources  of  pleasure,  drop  from  its  dignity  into  some  sink 
of  vice,  or  be  lost  in  the  mazes  of  sensual  dissipation  ? 

When  speaking  of  the  morality  of  the  fine  arts,  I  should 
be  unpardonable  were  I  not  to  fortify  myself  with  the 
sentiments  of  the  elegant  and  philosophical  critic,  Lord 
Kaims.  He  remarks  that  the  pleasures  of  the  ear  and 
eye  "  approach  the  purely  mental,  without  exhausting 
the  spirits;  and  exceed  the  purely  sensual,  without  the 
danger  of  satiety." — That  they  have  "  a  natural  aptitude 
to  draw  us  from  immoderate  gratifications  of  sensual  ap 
petite,"  and  that  the  Author  of  our  nature  has  thus  quali 
fied  us  to  rise,  by  gentle  steps,  "  from  the  most  grovel 
ing  corporeal  pleasures,  for  which  only  the  mind  is  fit 
ted  in  the  beginning  of  life,  to  those  refined  and  sublime 
pleasures  which  are  suited  to  maturity;"  and  these  re 
fined  pleasures  of  sense  lead  "  to  the  exalted  pleasures  of 
morality  and  religion."  We  stand,  therefore,  says  this 
eloquent  writer  "  engaged  in  honour,  as  well  as  interest, 
to  second  the  purposes  of  Nature,  by  cultivating  the  plea- 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  81 

sures  of  the  eye  and  ear,  those  especially  that  require  ex 
traordinary  culture,  such  as  are  inspired  by  poetry,  paint 
ing,  sculpture,  music,  gardening,  and  architecture."  Shall 
I  say  that  he  adds,  "  this  is  chiefly  the  duty  of  the  opu 
lent,  who  have  leisure  to  improve  their  minds  and  feel 
ings?"  He  further  declares,  that  "  a  taste  in  the  fine  arts 
and  the  moral  sense  go  hand  in  hand."  May  I  be  in 
dulged  in  a  further  extract  from  this  distinguished  critic 
and  moralist?  "  Mathematical  and  metaphysical  reason 
ings,"  he  says,  "  have  no  tendency  to  improve  social  in 
tercourse;  nor  are  they  applicable  to  the  common  affairs 
of  life:  but  a  just  taste  in  the  fine  arts,  derived  from  ra 
tional  principles,  is  a  fine  preparation  for  acting  in  the 
social  state  with  dignity  and  propriety."  It  moderates  the 
selfish  affections,  and  "  by  sweetening  and  harmonizing 
the  temper,  is  a  strong  antidote  to  the  turbulence  of  pas 
sion  and  the  violence  of  pursuit."  It  "procures  a  man 
so  much  enjoyment  at  home,  or  easily  within  reach,  that 
in  order  to  be  occupied,  he  is,  in  youth,  under  no  temp 
tation  to  precipitate  into  hunting,  gaming,  drinking;  nor, 
in  middle  age,  to  deliver  himself  over  to  ambition;  nor, 
in  old  age,  to  avarice."  "  I  insist  on  it,"  continues  he, 
"  with  entire  satisfaction,  that  no  occupation  attaches  a 
man  more  to  his  duty  than  that  of  cultivating  a  taste  in 
the  fine  arts,  a  just  relish  of  what  is  beautiful,  proper, 
elegant,  and  ornamental  in  writing  or  painting,  in  archi 
tecture  or  gardening,  is  a  fine  preparation  for  discerning 
what  is  beautiful,  just,  elegant,  or  magnanimous  in  char 
acter  and  behaviour." 

"For  the  attentive  mind, 
By  this  harmonious  action  on  her  powers, 
Becomes  herself  harmonious:  wont  so  long, 
In  outward  things,  to  meditate  the  charm 
Of  sacred  order,  soon  she  seeks  at  home 


82  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

To  find  a  kindred  order;  to  exert 

Within  herself,  this  elegance  of  love, 

This  fair  inspir'd  delight;  her  temper'd  powers 

Refine  at  length,  and  every  passion  wears 

A  chaster,  milder,  more  attractive  mien." 

If  such  pleasures  can  require  any  other  recomenda- 
tion  tttan  their  exquisite  and  dignified  delight,  their  per 
fect  innocence,  their  entire  exemption  from  all  disgust 
and  remorse,  do  we  not  find  it  in  their  universality  and 
ease  of  acquirement.  To  enjoy  a  fine  painting,  a  correct 
and  elegant  building,  a  beautiful  garden,  it  is  not  neces 
sary  we  should  own  them.  It  is  only  necessary  we 
should  have  chastened  and  improved  that  taste  of  which 
every  man  has  from  nature  a  portion,  to  derive  from 
these  expensive  possessions  every  pleasure  they  can  be 
stow.  Thus  it  is  that  wealth  spreads  her  bounty,  even  if 
reluctant,  and  is  compelled,  while  she  gratifies  her  vanity, 
to  diffuse  her  enjoyments. 

Further;  every  man  has  not  only  the  means  of  gratifi 
cation,  thus  cheaply  furnished,  but  also  the  power  of  en 
joying  them.  This  is  giveA  him  by  nature.  Whatever 
distance  there  may  be  between  the  rude  and  the  refined 
taste,  every  one  has  more  or  less  of  it;  afforded,  indeed, 
in  different  portions,  but  always  capable  of  much  im 
provement.  When  therefore  I  have  heard  gentlemen  ex 
cuse  themselves  from  contributing  their  aid  to  this  insti 
tution,  by  alleging  they  have  no  taste  for  such  things,  1 
have  been  astonished.  It  is  not  true.  Does  the  gentle 
man  mean  to  say,  he  cannot  tell  a  straight  line  from  a 
crooked  one;  that  he  cannot  discern  whether  an  imita 
tion  be  correct  or  otherwise;  that  he  has  no  pleasure  in 
beauty,  no  disgust  from  deformity  ?  What  is  this  taste 
they  are  so  eager  to  disclaim  ?  There  is  no  magic  in  the 
word: 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  83 

"  What,  then,  is  taste,  but  these  internal  powers, 
Active  and  strong,  and  feelingly  alive 
To  each  fine  impulse;  a  discerning  sense 
Of  decent  and  sublime,  with  quick  disgust 
From  things  deformed,  or  disarranged,  or  gross  in  species?" 
|-'<i~  -i 

If  this  be  taste,  is  any  one  willing  to  avow  himself  des 
titute  of  it?  What  does  it  require?  Sight,  sensibility, 
and  judgment.  That  it  is  possessed  in  portions  almost 
infinitely  different;  that  it  affords  pleasure  in  different 
degrees  to  different  men,  is  undoubtedly  true:  but,  every 
man  who  sees,  feels,  and  judges,  has  taste,  which,  by 
culture,  he  may  enlarge  and  improve. 

Let  us  imagine  some  gross  disproportion  in  a  building, 
or  deformity  in  a  statue  or  picture,  the  most  common  eye 
would  discover  it,  and  be  offended.  This  deformity  may 
be  so  diminished,  that  a  more  accurate  eye,  and  scrutini 
zing  judgment  is  necessary  to  detect  it,  which  is  obtain 
ed  by  more  experience,  and,  perhaps,  a  superior  origi 
nal  sensibility  or  delicacy  of  mental  organization.  When 
a  painter  spreads  over  his  canvass  some  animated  scene 
of  nature;  or  portrays  the  actions  or  passions  of  men, 
what  is  that  taste  which  decides  upon  the  merit  of  his 
work?  It  is  the  faculty  of  discerning  whether  his  imita 
tions  are  accurate,  his  combinations  just,  and  whether 
grace  and  harmony  pervade  the  whole.  No  man  is 
without  some  portion  of  this  discernment. 

It  is,  indeed,  so  far  from  being  true,  that  men,  in  gen 
eral,  are  not  competent  to  judge  of  the  productions  of 
the  fine  arts,  that  it  is  by  public  judgment  their  merit  or 
demerit  is  finally  established.  This  is  the  tribunal  before 
which  they  stand  or  fall;  and,  generally  speaking,  it  is 
not  only  impartial,  but  just  and  correct.  Public  opinion 
has,  in  more  instances  than  one,  triumphed  over  critics 
and  connoisseurs,  and  the  triumph  has  been  sanctioned 


84  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

by  time  and  experience.  Plays  and  poems  finally  take 
their  rank  in  literature  by  the  reception  they  meet  with 
in  the  world,  and  not  by  the  square  and  compass  of  the 
professed  critic.  Is  not  this  taste,  and  a  high  exercise  of 
its  prerogatives?  And  this  is  all  as  it  should  be.  The 
object  of  the  fine  arts,  in  all  their  branches,  is  to  please; 
to  engage  attention,  to  fascinate.  Now,  these  are  emo 
tions  of  which  every  man  is  susceptible.  We  require 
no  critic  or  connoisseur  to  tell  us  whether  we  shall  be 
delighted  with  a  play,  or  subdued  by  the  powers  of  music. 
Can  any  critic  prove  that  we  must  not  be  melted  with 
the  tenderness  of  Shakspeare,  or  prevent  him  from 
shaking  our  souls  with  terror  ?  Is  there  a  picture  which 
has  fascinated  every  eye;  or  a  piece  of  music  which  has 
touched  every  heart,  and  can  they  be  proved,  by  any 
course  of  reasoning  to  be  bad  ?  It  has  long  since  been 
agreed,  that  the  truest  test  of  eloquence  is  the  impres 
sion  it  makes  upon  the  common  audience;  even  upon  the 
vulgar  and  unlearned.  May  not  the  same  test  be  applied, 
not,  perhaps,  with  equal  confidence,  or  to  the  same  extent, 
to  other  efforts  of  genius  ? 

Professors  of  an  art  are  frequently  prejudiced  by  at 
tachments  to  particular  schools;  to  particular  masters;  by 
personal  friendships;  perhaps,  sometimes,  by  envy  or 
dislike:  but  the  public  voice  speaks  over  such  considera 
tions;  and,  when  combined  in  one  sentiment,  is  seldom 
wrong,  and  always  irresistible. 

The  highest  efforts  of  art  are  but  attempts  to  imitate 
Nature;  and  it  is  excellent  in  proportion  as  it  succeeds 
in  the  imitation.  Is  it  only  to  the  man  of  education  that 
Nature  unfolds  her  excellence  and  offers  her  enjoyments? 
Is  it  only  to  him  she  displays  her  beauties,  her  perfec 
tions,  her  symmetry? 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  85 

"  Ask  the  swain 

Who  journeys  homewards,  from  a  Summer-day's 
Long1  labour,  why,  forgetful  of  his  toils 
And  due  repose,  he  loiters  to  behold 
The  sunshine  gleaming,  as  through  amber  clouds, 
O'er  all  the  western  sky;  full  soon  I  ween 
His  rude  expression  and  untutor'd  airs, 
Beyond  the  powers  of  language,  will  unfold 
The  form  of  Beauty  smiling  at  his  heart, 
How  lovely  !  how  commanding  !" 

Nothing  can  be  more  obvious  and  natural  than  the  con 
nection  between  what  are  termed  the  useful  arts  and  the 
fine  arts;  and  hence  is  derived  a  strong  inducement  for 
encouraging  the  latter.  The  carpenter,  the  mason,  nay, 
the  mechanic  of  every  description,  will  improve  in  the 
propriety  and  elegance  of  his  design,  and  the  excellence 
of  his  workmanship,  by  having  placed  before  him  mo 
dels  formed  with  correct  proportion,  with  elegant  sym 
metry,  with  true  taste.  By  constantly  observing  what 
is  just  and  beautiful,  a  desire  of  imitating  it  is  excited;  a 
spirit  of  emulation  arises,  and  superior  genius  displays 
itself  in  the  most  ordinary  works.  Instead  of  immense 
piles  of  brick  and  mortaf  heaped  together,  without  any 
unity  or  propriety  of  design,  or  justness  of  proportion, 
where  expense  is  substituted  for  taste,  and  gaudy  orna 
ment  for  true  elegance,  we  shall  have  the  plain,  chaste, 
but  beautiful  productions  of  legitimate  architecture. 

Nor  is  it  only  in  constructing  our  dwellings  and  public 
edifices  that  the  aid  of  the  fine  arts  is  necessary.  It  is 
equally  required  in  selecting  and  disposing  the  internal 
decorations  and  furniture;  which  ar^  sometimes,  even  in 
the  houses  of  the  most  fashionable,  most  ridiculous  and 
shocking. — Those  mechanics,  therefore,  who  are  employ 
ed  in  these  services,  have  the  most  indispensable  occa 
sion  for  cultivating  their  talents,  and  improving  their 
8 


86  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

taste;  especially  while  their  employers  are  resolved  not 
to  do  so.  It  is  from  the  stores  of  antiquity  this  improve 
ment  is  to  be  drawn.  It  may  surprise  some  to  learn,  that 
most  of  the  ornaments  introduced  to  the  persons  and 
houses  of  the  wealthy  and  the  gay,  under  the  irresistible 
recommendation  of  being  "  new  fashions"  are  really 
some  thousand  years  old;  purloined  from  the  relics  of 
former  ages.  The  brilliant  trinket  that  sheds  its  lustre 
from  the  bosom  of  a  modern  belle,  performed  the  same 
kind  office  for  some  damsel,  equally  fair,  who,  centuries 
agone,  mouldered  to  imperceptible  atoms.  How  vari 
ous!  how  inexhaustible  is  the  profit  and  pleasure  to  be 
derived  from  the  studies  of  antiquity  ! 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  87 


BY  JAMES  Me  HENRY. 

TWAS  noon,  and  mild  and  beauteous  shone  the  day, 
For  meek  November  smil'd  as  sweet  as  May  ! 
As,  from  a  casement,  Ellen  and  her  sire, 
An  Indian  Summer's  lingering  charms  admire, 
Which  Freedom's  land  can  more  serenely  cheer, 
Than  all  the  seasons  of  the  circling  year. 
'Tis  true,  the  wood's  gay  verdure  is  withdrawn, 
The  faded  leaves  lie  scatter'd  o'er  the  lawn ; 
'Tis  true,  the  maize,  the  pride  of  cultur'd  fields, 
No  more  its  fring'd  and  tassel' d  grandeur  yields  ; 
Nor  the  wild  warblers  of  the  earlier  year, 
From  woodland  coverts  hill  and  valley  cheer  : 
Yet  the  bright  sun  a  kindlier  glory  sheds, 
O'er  heaven's  expanse  a  milder  azure  spreads, 
Save  when  the  ruddy  morn,  or  balmy  eve 
Through  screens  of  downy  mist  his  smiles  receive. 
Then  flits  th'  ethereal  gauze  before  the  view, 
And  shows  the  moving  scene  in  purple  hue  ; 
The  mountain  glimmers  through  the  prospect  dim, 
Rocks,  woods,  and  streams  in  fairy  landscape  swim ; 
More  sprightly  zephyrs  wanton  in  the  shades, 
And  livelier  wild  deer  bound  along  the  glades ; 
And  fresher  springs  than  Summer  heats  allow, 
Yield  purer  dews  and  sweeter  murmurs  now  ; 
Now  wand' ring  birds  in  airy  journeys  rove, 
And  beasts,  disporting,  march  in  many  a  drove  ; 


88  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

All  animation  joys  to  be  alive, 

And  dying  swarms  to  sweeter  life  revive  ! — 

A  sacred  feeling,  grateful  and  serene, 

At  nature's  cheering  gray,  and  fading  green, 

O'er  man's  pleas'd  soul  enlivening  influence  throws, 

As  oft  life's  lamp  burns  brighter  at  its  close, 

And  much  it  feels  this  Pennsylvanian  charm, 

Whose  smiles  the  year's  declining  age  can  warm  ! 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  89 


BY  DR.  BEDELL. 


THIS  fair  and  nourishing  city  in  which  we  dwell  con 
tains  but  few  more  souls  than  did  Scio.  If  your  sympa 
thy  can  be  roused  by  the  contrast  of  your  own  condition, 
change  but  the  scene  of  action,  and  put  yourselves  in 
their  place.  No,  my  friends,  not  the  boldest  stretch  of 
your  imagination  could  give  to  the  picture,  glowing  all 
it  might  be,  any  features  which  could  possibly  resemble 
the  dreadful  original.  But  let  imagination  rule  for  a  mo 
ment,  and  suppose  an  overwhelming  force  of  barbarians, 
bursting  upon  your  defenceless  city.  They  fire  it  in 
every  quarter  —  your  houses  are  given  to  the  fury  of  the 
element  —  the  sacred  temples  of  religion  are  roofless  and 
desolate  —  the  institutions  of  piety  and  liberality  echo 
nothing  but  the  shrieks  of  the  despairing  and  the  dying. 
If  you  fear  to  perish  in  the  flames  of  your  houses,  crowd 
your  streets  the  unresisting  victims  of  a  fiercer  element 
—  that  fire  which  rages  in  the  bosom  of  your  foe.  Es 
cape  is  denied  —  observe  around  an  indiscriminate  slaugh 
ter,  which  spares  neither  age  nor  sex  —  helpless  decrepi 
tude  nor  weeping  infancy.  There,  observe  the  wife  torn 
from  the  bosom  of  her  husband,  and  cruelly  murdered 
before  his  eyes  ;  there,  the  husband  cut  down  by  some 
relentless  arm,  while  he  held  to  his  palpitating  heart  the 
trembling,  almost  lifeless  partner  of  his  sorrows  :  there, 
the  father  or  the  brother  as  they  fled  to  the  protection  of 


90  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

the  daughter  or  the  sister,  held  by  the  strong  arm  of  the 
foe,  and  compelled  to  behold,  in  the  very  face  of  day,  the 
deed  of  dishonour,  worse  than  death — there,  the  weeping 
infant,  snatched  from  the  bosom  of  its  mother,  and  literally 
dashed  against  the  stones.  Oh !  ye  who  can  boast  the  pos 
session  of  a  land  of  freedom,  whose  soil  no  barbarian  foe 
will  ever  dare  to  pollute.  Oh  !  ye  inhabitants  of  a  city 
which  bears  the  name  of  brotherly  love,  the  very  con 
trast  of  'your  happiness  ;  the  consideration  of  your  secu 
rity;  the  recollection  of  the  strugglejthrough  which  your  fa 
thers  were  prosperously  brought,  all — all  should  stimulate 
you  to  an  exertion  which  should  tell  how  deep  your  sym 
pathy,  how  grateful  your  recollections  ;  and  with  an  im 
pulse  which  is  irresistible,  you  should  give,  and  that  lib 
erally,  to  relieve  the  sufferings  of  your  brethren,  who  are 
houseless,  friendless,  and  in  misery  unparalleled. 

When  I  see  the  efforts  which  are  making  by  the  indi 
vidual  friends  of  this  cause  in  Europe  : — when  I  see  how 
nobly  some  of  our  cities,  and  many  of  our  villages,  have 
come  forward:  when  I  see  what  some  noble  spirited  in 
dividuals  among  ourselves  have  done ;  when  I  observe 
by  the  public  prints,  how  the  people  gather  in  crowds  in 
the  places  of  public  entertainment,  and,  by  a  rather  sin 
gular  exhibition  of  pity,  sympathize  with  the  Greeks, 
while  they  gratify  themselves,  I  trust  that  in  so  sacred 
a  cause,  there  shall  issue  from  the  house  of  God,  this  day, 
a  corresponding  liberality.  If  otherwise,  the  character 
of  our  Christians,  and  the  character  of  our  city  will  be 
both  disrcedited. 

But  I  will  not  cast  upon  you,  my  friends,  a  reproach 
so  foul  as  to  suppose  that  you  will  be  backward  in  an 
swering  this  call  for  mercy.  Long  may  you  be  exempt 
from  horrors  such  as  these  already  described  ;  long  may 
comforts  be  thickly  gathered  round  you,  like  the  richest 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  91 

clusters  of  the  vintage.     Here  we  have  no  danger  of 
slaughtered  sires;  no  wives,  no  daughters  dishonoured ; 
"  no  leading  into  captivity,  and  no  complaining  in  our 
streets  ;"  and,  while  you  raise  your  hearts  to  God,  that 
he  has  cast  your  inheritance  here  on  this  favoured  spot, 
forget  not  the  perishing  who  ask  for  your  sympathy.     If 
ever  the  land  of  Greece  should  again  come  under  the  do 
mination  of  its  infidel  invaders,  then  farewell  to  liberty 
and  hope  ;  blasted  will  be  every  prospect  of  private  hap 
piness,  or  of  public  prosperity.    All  the  institutions  which 
are  now  calculated  to  diffuse  the  benefits  of  education  ; 
all  the  temples  sacred  to  the  living  God,  will  be  swept 
away  as  with  the  very  besom  of  destruction — nay,  life 
itself,  more  than  ever  would  hang  upon  the  will  of  a  bar 
barous  master.     The  extermination  of  the  Christians  will 
scarcely  serve  to  satiate  the  vengeance  of  their  infuriated 
foes  ;  and  Greece,  fair  Greece,  will  be  blotted  from  among 
the  nations  of  the  earth,  by  the  life  blood  of  her  sons  and 
daughters.     To   you  Christians,  fellow-men,  who  have 
hearts  to  feel  and  to  bleed,  they  cry  "  have  pity  upon  us." 
Oh,  speed  us,  from  the  land  of  liberty  and  refuge,  the  ex 
pressions  of  a  Christian  sympathy.     While,  with  a  cold 
and  calculating  policy,  the  governments  of  Europe,  see 
us  within  the  very  jaws  of  the  lion,  and  leave  us  to   his 
teeth,  we  pray  you  not  to  desert  us  also.     We  are  breth 
ren,    seeking  the   same   liberty  which  you  enjoy,   and 
which  the  blood  of  your  fathers  was  poured  out  to  pur 
chase  :  we  are  Christians,  having  the  union  of  a  common 
faith. 


- 
92  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 


BY  S.  J.  SMITH. 

From  the  blood-stain' d  track  of  ruthless  war, 

An  Indian  Boy  had  fled; 
Remote  from  his  home,  in  the  wild  woods  far, 

A  moss  bank  pillow'd  his  head. 

His  glossy  hair  was  damp  with  dew, 

His  air  was  mild  and  meek — 
And  it  seem'd  that  a  straggling  tear  or  two 

Had  wander' d  down  his  cheek. 

For  he  saw  in  his  dream,  the  bayonet's  gleam, 

He  saw  his  kindred  fall; 
And  he  heard  his  mother's  dying  scream, 

And  the  crackling  flames  take  all. 

In  his  fev'rish  sleep  he  turn'd  and  roll'd, 
'Mid  the  fern  and  the  wild  flowers  gay; 

And  his  little  hand  fell  on  a  rattlesnake's  fold, 
As  coil'd  in  the  herbage  it  lay. 

His  head  the  stately  reptile  rais'd, 

Unclos'd  his  fiery  eye; 
On  the  sleeping  Boy  for  a  moment  gaz'd, 

Then  pass'd  him  harmless  by. 

'Twas  well,  young  savage,  well  for  thee, 
It  was  only  the  serpent's  lair; 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  93 

Thy  fate  perchance  would  different  be, 
Had  the  white  man  slumbered  there. 

His  short  nap  o'er,  uprose  the  child, 
•  His  lonely  way  to  tread; 
Thro'  the  deepest  gloom  of  the  forest  wild, 
His  pathless  journey  led. 

Where  high  in  air  the  cypress  shakes 

His  mossy  tresses  wide, 
O'er  the  beaver's  stream,  and  the  dark  blue  lakes, 

Where  the  wild  duck  squadrons  ride. 

At  the  close  of  the  day,  in  a  wildering  glen, 

A  covert  met  his  view; 
And  he  crept  well  pleas'd  in  the  sheltering  den, 

For  chilly  the  night  wind  blew. 

And  soon  his  weary  eyelids  close, 

Tho'  something  touch'd  his  ear; 
'Twas  only  the  famish' d  she-wolf's  nose, 

As  she  smelt  for  her  young  ones  near. 

And  forth  she  hied  at  the  noon  of  night, 

To  seek  her  custom' d  prey — 
And  the  Indian  boy,  at  the  peep  of  light, 

He  too  pursu'd  his  way. 

rTwas  well,  young  savage,  well  for  thee, 

It  was  only  the  wild  beast's  lair; 
Thy  fate  perchance  would  different  be, 

Had  the  white  man  slumber'd  there. 

But  where,  alas!  poor  wanderer!  canst  thou  stray, 
Where  white  intruders  shall  molest  no  more? 

Like  ocean's  billows,  their  resistless  way, 

A  whelming  deluge,  spreads  from  shore  to  shore. 


94  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

Their  onward  march,  insatiate  as  the  grave, 

Still  shall  they  hold — to  province,  province  join; 

Till,  bounded  by  the  broad  Pacific's  wave, 
Their  giant  empire,  seas  alone  confine. 

And  lo!  their  missions  distant  climes  explore, 
To  spread  the  joyful  Gospel  tidings  far — 

While,  wrapt  in  tenfold  darkness  at  their  door, 
The  forest's  children  find  no  guiding  star. 

But,  oh!  my  country — tho'  neglect  alone 
Were  crime  sufficient — deeper  guilt  is  thine: 

Thy  sins  of  crimson,  added  to  his  own, 

Have  crush'd  the  savage  with  a  weight  malign. 

We  seize  the  comforts  bounteous  Heav'n  has  given, 
With  strange  diseases  vex  him  from  his  birth; 

We  sooth  his  sorrows  with  no  hopes  of  Heaven, 
Yet  drive  him  headlong  from  his  home  on  earth. 

As  shrinks  the  stubble  from  the  rushing  blaze, 
Or  feathery  snow  from  summer's  tepid  air; 

So  at  our  withering  touch  his  race  decays, 

By  whiskey  poison'd,  all  that  war  may  spare. 

But  can  the  Power,  whose  awful  mandate  roll'd 
This  globe  abroad,  and  gave  all  nations  birth; 

Can  he,  the  source  of  being,  pleas'd  behold? 
A  people  perish  from  th'  uncumber'd  earth? 

No— from  their  slumber  let  the  good  and  wise 
At  length  awaken,  and  their  task  begin; 

Reform — enlighten — soften — Christianize 
The  border  savage,  with  the  paler  skin. 

Then  lead  the  wild  man  of  the  forest  forth, 
With  kindness  lure  him,  to  his  eye  disclose 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  95 

A  new  creation — make  him  feel  the  worth 
Of  all  Industry  on  a  land  bestows. 

The  page  of  knowledge  to  his  view  unroll, 
The  Charms  of  virtue  to  his  mind  display; 

And  open  wide  to  his  benighted  soul, 
The  full  effulgence  of  the  Gospel  Day. 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 


BY  JAMES  HALL. 


SHORTLY  after  the  defeat  of  the  British  army  at  Fort 
Erie,  in  the  brilliant  sortie  planned  and  executed  by 
General  Brown,  that  officer  received  intelligence  that 
General  Izard  was  on  his  way  to  join  him  with  a  large 
force.  A  few  weeks  sooner,  this  intelligence  would  have 
been  highly  gratifying.  The  American  army,  hemmed 
in  by  a  foe  whose  numbers  more  than  quadrupled  their 
own,  had  been  placed  in  an  embarrassing  situation.  The 
Fort  was  situated  on  low  flat  ground,  and  the  season 
being  very  wet,  the  constant  tramping  of  so  many  men 
had  converted  the  whole  place  into  one  great  mud  pud 
dle;  the  garrison,  who  were  lodged  in  tents,  were  exposed 
to  continual  rains;  there  was  no  spot  secure  from  the  ele 
ments,  and  a  dry  vestment,  bed,  or  blanket,  was,  at  times, 
not  to  be  found  within  our  line  of  sentinels;  while  the 
frequent  alarms,  and  the  necessary  "  watch  and  ward" 
left  only  intervals  for  that  broken  slumber  which  refresh 
es  not.  But  little  pay,  if  any,  had  been  received  during 
the  campaign — money  there  was  absolutely  none — and 
our  diet  was  necessarily  confined  to  the  ration  of  meat 
and  bread,  which  was  not  of  the  best  kind.  The  perpe 
tual  shower  of  cannon  balls  and  bursting  of  bomb-shells 
was  not  a  matter  of  complaint,  for  this  was  soldier's  luck; 
to  be  shot  at  was  our  vocation ;  and  as  we  failed  not  to 
amuse  ourselves  at  the  batteries  during  a  part  of  every 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  97 

day,  we  had,  at  least,  the  satisfaction  of  believing  that 
our  fallen  companions  would  not,  like  Scipio's  ghost, 
"  stalk  unrevenged  among  us."  But  nestling  in  the  mire, 
and  starving,  and  coughing  our  lungs  away,  were  matters 
which  had  not  entered  into  our  contract  with  the  govern 
ment,  and  on  which  our  commissions,  as  well  as  the 
"  rules  and  articles"  were  silent.  It  was  not  so  "  nomi 
nated  in  the  bond."  Why  could  not  Uncle  Sam  send  us 
food,  and  physic,  and  a  few  lusty  fellows  to  help  us  fight? 
Where  there  are  no  superfluous  men,  every  one  who  falls 
leaves  a  niche;  and  while  we  beheld  our  little  force  gradu 
ally  wasting  away,  it  was  provoking  enough  to  reflect 
that  our  country  was  full  of  men,  some  of  whom  abused 
us,  some  laughed  at  us,  a  few  praised,  and  none  assisted. 
I  may  add,  that  the  foe  had  vowed  our  extermination, 
and  on  one  occasion  had  marched  up  to  our  batteries, 
filling  the  air  with  the  dreadful  war  cry — "  no  quarter — 
no  quarter  to  the  d — d  Yankees!!"  and  that  noble  spirit 
of  emulation,  that  generous  contention,  and  courteous  in 
terchange  of  kindly  offices  upon  proper  occasions,  which 
should  exist  among  civilized  armies,  were  all  swallowed 
up  in  the  deep  hate  excited  by  the  cold-blooded  cruelty 
of  the  enemy.  As  war,  disease,  and  the  doctor,  daily 
thinned  our  ranks,  it  seemed  evident,  that  unless  supplies 
should  arrive,  we  must  become  the  victims  of  that  unre 
lenting  barbarity,  of  which  our  fellow  citizens,  on  various 
occasions,  have  had  sufficient  experience.  Our  country, 
however,  still  forgot  us,  and  I  know  not  what  would 
have  become  of  us,  had  it  not  been  for  one  kind-hearted 
gentleman.  He  was  a  Quaker  gentleman;  and  the  Qua 
kers,  you  know,  are  famed  for  benevolence.  Slipping 
out  of  the  Fort  one  day,  about  noon,  when  John  Bull 
never  dreamt  of  such  a  matter,  he  dexterously  cut  off 
about  a  third  of  their  army,  and  by  that  "  free  use  of  the 
9 


98  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

bayonet/'  which  the  British  commander  had  recommend 
ed  upon  a  recent  occasion;  he  saved  his  own  credit,  and 
the  throats  and  scalps  of  his  men,  who  filled  the  air  with 
acclamations.  The  enemy,  completely  defeated,  retired; 
and  General  Brown,  not  having  force  enough  to  pursue, 
could  only  make  his  bow,  and  wish  them  good  bye. 

At  this  juncture  a  despatch  arrived,  announcing  that 
General  Izard  had  left  Plattsburgh;  was  to  embark  at 
Sackett's  Harbour,  and  passing  up  the  lake,  touch  at 
the  mouth  of  the  Eighteen  Mile  Creek,  whence  his 
course  would  be  directed,  in  a  great  measure,  by  the  in 
telligence  he  might  receive  from  General  Brown.  It 
was  desirable,  therefore,  that  he  should  be  met  at  that 
point  by  an  officer  from  Fort  Erie,  who  could  advise 
him  of  the  exact  situation  of  the  garrison,  and  the  rela 
tive  positions  and  strength  of  the  two  contending  armies, 
and  convey  the  communications  of  General  Brown.  A 
young  artillery  officer  was  accordingly  summoned  to  the 
general's  quarters,  and  after  receiving  the  necessary  in 
structions,  he  was  ordered  to  get  himself  in  readiness  to 
set  out  immediately.  «  General  Izard  must  be  met,"  said 
the  commander,  "  at  the  hour  he  has  appointed:  can  you 
reach  the  place  by  that  time?"  "  Oh,  yes,  certainly,  sir," 
replied  the  young  artillerist,  "  though  I  must  confess  that 
I  neither  know  the  route  nor  the  distance."  The  General 
smiled,  named  the  distance,  hastily  indicated  the  route, 
and  reminding  his  envoy  that  there  was  barely  time  left 
to  accomplish  the  journey  by  the  most  rapid  riding, 
wished  him  a  pleasant  jaunt. 

The  Bearer  of  Despatches  crossing  an  arm  of  the  lake, 
which  separates  Fort  Erie  from  Buffaloe,  repaired  to  the 
Quartermaster  to  procure  a  horse,  and  being  well  mount 
ed,  departed  early  in  the  afternoon  of  the  same  day.  Two 
routes  were  presented  to  his  choice;  the  one  was  the  main 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  99 

road  which  led  by  Batavia,  and  was  too  circuitous  to  be 
travelled  within  the  allotted  time;  the  other  was  an  un 
frequented,  but  more  direct  path,  which,  leading  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Fort  Niagara,  then  in  possession  of  the 
enemy,  was  fraught  with  danger:  but  it  was  necessarily 
chosen.  A  large  cloak  disguised  the  person  of  our  sol 
dier,  concealing  his  arms  and  military  insignia;  and  he 
hoped,  under  the  cover  of  night,  to  pass  the  vicinity  of 
the  Fort  unobserved.  By  rapid  riding  he  reached  the 
neighbourhood  of  Schlosser  a  little  before  sunset,  and 
being  unwilling  to  approach  Queenstown  early  in  the 
evening,  he  checked  his  horse  and  rode  leisurely  along. 
Cooped  up,  as  he  had  been,  he  now7  enjoyed,  with  an  ex 
quisite  relish,  the  luxuries  of  pure  air,  exercise,  and  liber 
ty.  His  route  lay  along  the  margin  of  the  Niagara  river, 
which  now  separated  him  from  those  glorious  fields  which 
had  been  so  recently  drenched  in  gore,  and  in  which 
American  valour  had  been  so  conspicuously  displayed. 
A  few  weeks  before,  he  had  passed  along  the  opposite 
shore  in  all  the  fervour  of  youthful  hope  and  military 
pride,  surrounded  by  the  pomp  and  circumstance  of  glo 
rious  war,  by  the  tumult  and  glitter  of  an  army  with 
flying  colours,  and  drums  and  hearts  beating.  Now  the 
solitary  horseman  rode  alone;  the  breeze  bore  not  the  ac 
cents  of  men,  nor  did  the  distant  echo  whisper  danger 
in  his  ear,  but  his  eye  dwelt  upon  scenes  of  interest;  well 
known  spots  occasionally  glanced  upon  his  vision:  here 
an  army  had  been  encamped,  there  a  battle  fought,  and 
under  those  trees  slept  many  a  companion!  The  last  rays 
of  the  sun  fell  upon  his  back,  and  the  trees  threw  their 
gigantic  shadows  along  the  path  before  him.  At  such 
an  hour  the  eye  is  most  delighted  with  the  beauties  of  a 
wild  landscape,  when  the  nooks,  and  glens,  and  secluded 
places  begin  to  darken  into  the  gloom  of  twilight,  while 


100  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

the  sunbeams  still  glitter  on  the  hills  and  tree-tops,  or 
sleep  upon  the  wave.  The  Niagara  was  rippling  along 
its  rocky  channel,  murmuring  and  fretting  as  it  rushed 
towards  the  precipice,  over  which  its  descent  causes  one 
of  the  sublimest  objects  in  nature.  These  circumstances 
all  combined  to  wrap  the  heart  of  the  traveller  in  sweet 
and  pleasing  meditation;  and  he  rode  on,  enjoying  those 
dreams,  which,  creeping  imperceptibly  into  young  hearts, 
hold  the  imagination  entranced  in  delight;  in  irresistible 
delusions,  full  of  rapture,  variety,  and  beauty.  The  hour 
was  witching,  the  scene  picturesque,  the  very  air  melo 
dious,  and  the  realities  around  him  became  mellowed, 
and  softened,  and  spiritualized  into  airy  creations  of  the 
fancy.  The  mind,  warmed  into  romantic  feeling,  gave 
its  own  hue  to  the  surrounding  objects;  rude  and  famil 
iar  things  took  to  themselves  wings  and  flew  away;  vul 
gar  associations  were  banished;  the  scenery  disposed 
itself  into  shapes  and  shades  of  beauty;  bright  and  varied 
colours  fell  upon  the  landscape;  creatures  of  fancy  peo 
pled  the  shade,  and  the  breeze  murmured  in  numbers. 

Our  officer  halted  a  moment  at  Schlosser  to  make 
some  inquiries  relative  to  his  route,  and  learning  that  a 
countryman  had  just  passed  along,  whose  homeward  path 
led  in  the  very  direction  desired,  he  determined  to  profit 
by  his  company  and  guidance.  Spurring  his  steed,  there 
fore,  he  rode  rapidly  on.  Near  the  Falls  he  overtook 
the  boor,  plodding  heavily  along.  He  was  a  man  whose 
general  outline  announced  him  to  be  of  the  middle  age; 
but  his  visage  placed  him  in  the  decline  of  life.  Dissipa 
tion  had  probably  anticipated  the  palsying  touch  of  time, 
had  wrinkled  his  face,  and  slightly  tinged  his  hair  with 
the  frosty  hue  of  winter.  His  bloodshot  eyes  gave  proof 
of  habitual  intemperance;  but  there  was  speculation  in 
them,  and  a  vile  speculation  it  was:  it  was  the  keen,  cun- 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  101 

ning,  steady  glance  of  one  who  in  his  time  had  cut,  shuf 
fled,  and  dealt,  who  could  slip  a  card,  and  knew  where 
the  trumps  lay.  With  this  was  mingled  the  dulness  of 
an  illiterate  man,  and  the  good  humour  of  one  who  was 
willing  to  be  amused,  and  meant  no  harm  to  others. 
Saving  the  besetting  sin  above  alluded  to,  and  perhaps 
the  occasional  passing  of  a  counterfeit  bill  upon  strong 
temptation,  a  small  matter  for  a  frontier  man,  he  might 
have  been  a  right  honest  fellow;  one  who  knew  the  cour 
tesies  and  good  feelings  of  life,  passed  the  cup  merrily, 
would  do  a  neighbourly  act  when  it  came  in  his  way, 
never  beat  his  wife  when  he  was  sober,  nor  troubled  his 
children  when  they  kept  out  of  his  way.  Such  at  least 
was  the  estimate  which  our  young  soldier  formed  of  his 
companion,  during  their  subsequent  ride  together,  to 
which  it  is  only  necessary  to  add,  that  he  seemed  to  have 
recently  parted  from  good  liquor,  and  to  have  attained 
that  precise  point  of  elation,  which  is  well  understood  in 
every  polite  circle  by  the  phrase,  a  little,  high. 

When  the  two  riders  encountered,  they  scrutinized 
each  other  with  that  jealous  caution  which  commonly 
passed  between  strangers  who  met,  in  those  dangerous 
times,  in  the  vicinity  of  the  hostile  armies.  The  cautious 
question,  and  the  guarded  answer  passed  mutually,  until 
each  had  learned  as  much  as  he  could,  and  disclosed  as 
much  as  he  pleased.  Our  officer  announced  himself  as  a 
storekeeper,  who  had  been  to  the  army  to  make  a  traffic 
with  the  suttlers,  having  failed  in  which,  he  was  now  re 
turning  home  in  haste,  by  a  route  which  he  was  told  was 
nearer  than  the  main  road,  and  wished  to  get  that  night 

to  a  place  called .     The  countryman  lived  at  that 

very  place,  was  now  going  home,  although  it  was  still 
upwards  of  sixteen  miles  distant,  and  he  said  he  would 
be  glad  of  our  traveller's  company. 


102  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

They  reached  the  Falls  while  daylight  yet  lingered 
over  the  awful  abyss,  and  the  officer,  who  had  beheld  this 
wonderful  sight  from  the  opposite  shore,  proposed  to  his 
companion  to  halt,  that  he  might  survey  it  under  a  new 
aspect.  The  latter,  who  seemed  in  no  haste,  cheerfully 
complied,  and  even  seemed  pleased  with  the  opportunity 
of  acting  the  Cicerone,  and  detailing  all  the  wonderful 
tales  extant,  in  relation  to  the  great  cataract  He  did  not, 
it  is  true,  relate  that  surprising  fact  which  Goldsmith  has 
recorded,  and  Morse  has  copied  from  him,  i.  e.  that  the 
Indians  descend  these  rapids  in  their  canoes,  in  safety; 
because,  notwithstanding  this  circumstance  is  vouched 
for  by  two  celebrated  doctors,  great  amateurs  in  rivers, 
winds,  and  mountains,  the  vulgar  give  it  no  credit,  and 
the  natives  deny  it.  Strange  infatuation,  that  the  asser 
tions  of  philosophers  should  not  be  believed,  in  prefer 
ence  to  our  own  erring  senses  and  crude  notions  of  proba 
bility!  When  our  officer  mentioned  this  story  to  his 
guide,  he  exclamed,  "  Impossible!  the  man's  sartainly 
cracked!"  And  had  he  told  the  same  individual  that  Dr. 
Mitchell  had  said  that  a  whale  was  not  a  fish,  he  would 
have  expressed  a  similar  astonishment;  so  incredulous  is 
ignorance,  so  unwillingly  does  it  bow  to  science  and  re 
search.  For  my  part,  I  make  it  a  rule  never  to  quarrel 
with  a  philosopher,  and  am  therefore  willing  to  admit 
that  it  is  not  only  a  safe  but  a  remarkably  salubrious 
and  amusing"" recreation  to  paddle  a  canoe  down  the  Falls 
and  back  again. 

Leaving  this  spot,  the  officer  was  conducted  by  his 
guide  to  another  object  of  admiration.  A  short  distance 
below  the  cataract,  the  river,  rushing  along  with  the  im 
mense  velocity  acquired  by  being  precipitated  from  so 
great  a  height,  suddenly  strikes  a  perpendicular  precipice, 
which  juts  boldly  into  the  stream  from  the  American 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  103 

side,  and  the  current  thus  thrown  abruptly  to  the  left, 
creates  a  whirlpool,  which  is  not  the  least  among  the 
curiosities  of  this  region.  The  officer  advanced  to  the 
edge  of  the  cliff,  and  gazed  in  silence  on  the  foaming  cur 
rent,  and  its  overhanging  banks,  now  dimly  discovered 
through  the  gray  twilight.  His  reveries  were  broken 
by  his  companion,  who  narrated  a  melancholy  tale  con 
nected  with  the  scene  of  their  contemplation.  Many 
years  ago,  when  all  of  this  country  was  in  the  possession 
of  the  British,  a  detachment  of  troops,  having  under  their 
convoy  a  number  of  families  with  their  furniture  and 
baggage,  were  overtaken  by  night  in  this  vicinity.  They 
still  proceeded,  however,  in  hopes  of  reaching  the  forts 
below.  But  the  French  and  Indians  had  formed  an  am 
buscade  at  this  very  spot,  and  just  as  the  devoted  party 
were  passing  along  the  brink  of  the  precipice,  the  savage 
foe  rushed  on  them  with  hideous  yells.  Those  alone  who 
have  heard  the  soulthrilling  cry  of  the  Indian  warrior, 
who  have  heard  it  breaking  through  the  gloom  of  the 
night,  with  all  its  horrible  accompaniments,  with  the  wail 
of  infants,  and  the  shrieks  of  women  with  the  groans  of 
the  dying,  the  prayfers  and  curses  of  the  living,  those  only 
can  conceive  the  horror  of  such  a  moment.  In  vain  the 
troops  endeavoured  to  resist — the  tomahawk  was  drench 
ed  in  blood — the  European  heard  the  dreadful  war-cry, 
and  felt  that  it  was  his  knell;  he  received  the  fatal  blow 
from  an  unseen  hand,  and  had  not  the  stern  pleasure  of 
beholding  his  antagonist,  but  fell  without  the  gratification 
of  avenging  his  death,  or  the  honour  of  defending  his 
life.  Still  the  foe  pressed  on;  with  the  war-whoop  was 
mingled  loud  shouts  of  triumph  and  the  laugh  of  demo 
niac  exultation;  the  soldiers  gave  back,  the  horses,  panic 
struck,  fled  from  the  din  of  battle,  and  in  a  moment  were 
precipitated  into  the  yawning  gulf;  men,  women,  and 


104  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

children  followed,  and  the  whole  of  this  unhappy  party 
slept  that  night  under  the  wave.  "  It  is  said,"  continued 
the  informer,  "  that  their  spirits  may  still  be  seen  of  a 
moonlight  night,  dancing  in  circles  in  yonder  whirling 
place,  where  the  water  goes  round  so  rapidly — and  now, 
see  there!  what  is  that?"  The  officer  looked  in  the  direc 
tion  designated  by  the  finger  of  his  companion,  and  be 
held  a  black  object  in  the  whirlpool,  rising  a  foot  or  two 
above  the  surface  of  the  water,  circulating  rapidly  with 
it,  and  gradually  approaching  the  centre,  until  it  was 
swallowed  in  the  vortex.     He  could  easily  imagine  that 
the  trunks  and  boughs  of  trees,  floating  down  the  current 
might  be  drawn  into  the  pool,  and  whirling  around  with 
the  velocity  of  the  water,  might  assume  an  upright  posi 
tion,  and  present  the  appearance  which  alarmed  the  in 
habitants,  and  gave  probability  to  their  conjectures.     I 
have  never  been  altogether  satisfied  with  fthis  sophism 
of  my  friend.     It  is  not  possible  at  this  time  to  ascertain 
the  true  character  of  the  apparition  which  he  beheld,  nor 
is  it  my  business,  as  a  faithful  historian,  to  risk  my  re 
putation  by  giving  a  positive  opinion  upon  the  subject: 
yet  I  must  remark,  that  I  have  no  reason,  nor  had  my 
military  friend  any,  to  induce  a  belief  that  this  was  not 
as  genuine  and  as  honest  a  ghost  as  ever  was  beheld  by 
mortal  eyes.    The  fact  is,  that  this  young  gentleman  had 
lately  seen  so  many  of  his  fellow  mortals   despatched 
prematurely  to  their  graves,  that  his  mind  had  become 
familiarized  with  death,  and  in  his  dealings  with  substan 
tial  dangers  he  had  acquired  a  contempt  for  unreal  sha 
dows.     I  am  glad,  however,  to  be  able  to  add  that  he 
had  the  discretion  to  conceal  his  scepticism  from  his  fel 
low  traveller,  to  whose  remark  he  gravely  replied,  "  that 
human  bodies  when  not  decently  buried  seldom  rested 
in  peace,  but  that  he  had  never  heard  of  their  doing  any 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  105 

harm."     His  companion  assented  to  the  truth  of  this  sa 
gacious  remark,  and  they  pursued  their  journey. 

These  conversations  having  banished  reserve,  and  the 
companions  beginning  to  grow  into  confidence  with  each 
other,  the  officer  ventured  to  inquire  how  near  their  route 
would  lead  to  Fort  Niagara,  and  learned  that  they  must 
pass  within  a  short  distance  of  that  fortress.  Concealing 
his  sense  of  the  danger  which  this  information  implied 
to  his  person  and  mission,  he  said  carelessly,  "  Well,  I 
suppose  they  will  not  disturb  peaceable  travellers?" 
"  Sometimes  they  do,  and  sometimes  they  don't,"  was 
the  reply.  "  Do  they  ever  get  out  as  far  as  your  little 
village?"  "  Oh,  yes,  often."  "  And  how  do  they  behave 
there?"  "  Bad  enough,  bad  enough,"  and  he  then  pro 
ceeded  to  narrate  a  number  of  particulars,  showing  how 
these  petty  marauders  destroyed  their  property,  insulted 
their  women,  and  bullied  their  men,  adding  to  the  most 
monstrous  acts  of  cruelty  and  oppression,  the  meanness 
of  picking  locks  and  pilfering  trifles.  It  was  by  no  means 
a  matter  of  pleasing  reflection  to  the  Bearer  of  Despatch 
es,  that  he  must  rest  that  night,  if  he  rested  at  all,  under 
a  roof  subject  to  these  domiciliary  visits:  but  he  had 
other  causes  of  uneasiness.  It  is  well  known  that  all  the 
inhabitants  within  the  reach  of  an  English  garrison,  who 
are  capable  of  corruption,  become  corrrupt.  English 
gold,  which  is  but  a  bugbear  among  the  virtuous,  pre 
sents  a  tempting  lure  to  the  loose  and  unprincipled  inhabi 
tants  of  a  frontier,  who  can  scarcely  be  said  to  belong  to 
any  country;  and  our  armies  sometimes  encountered 
spies  and  traitors,  where  they  had  fondly  hoped  to  find 
friends.  On  this  occasion,  our  officer,  who  had  incautious 
ly  placed  himself  under  the  guidance  of  a  stranger,  began 
to  feel,  as  darkness  gathered  around  him,  that  he  had 
acted  imprudently,  as  the  latter  could  as  easily  conduct 


106  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

him  to  Fort  Niagara  as  to  a  place  of  safety.  He  concealed 
his  suspicions,  and  determined  to  act  warily. 

It  was  dark  when  they  reached  Lewistown,  a  little 
village  which  had  been  entirely  reduced  to  ashes  by  the 
enemy.  The  moon,  which  now  shone  brightly,  disclosed 
the  solitary  chimneys  standing  *amid  the  ruins,  the  fruit- 
trees  surrounded  by  briars,  the  remains  of  enclosures, 
and  all  the  marks  of  desolation.  A  more  beautiful  situa 
tion  could  scarcely  be  imagined,  but  it  was  now  a  wilder 
ness.  Here  they  took  a  path  which  led  them  from  the 
river.  A  thick  forest  now  overshadowed  them,  and  they 
proceeded  in  silence  and  wrapped  in  impenetrable  dark 
ness,  except  at  intervals,  when  they  reached  the  summit 
of  a  hill,  and  the  moon  shot  her  beams  through  the 
branches.  It  was  only  by  seizing  such  opportunities  to 
watch  the  progress,  and  mark  the  exact  position  of  this 
friendly  luminary,  that  our  officer,  by  forming  some  esti 
mate  of  the  course  he  was  pursuing,  could  judge  of  the 
fidelity  of  his  guide.  They  passed  an  eneampment  of 
the  Tuscarora  Indians,  where  all  was  dark  and  silent; 
and  about  midnight  arrived  at  the  place  of  destination, 
which,  though  characterized  as  a  village,  was  composed 
of  only  two  or  three  log  cabins.  To  one  of  these,  which 
was  dignified  with  the  name  of  a  public  house,  our 
traveller  was  conducted  by  his  companion  who  apolo 
gized  for  not  inviting  him  to  his  own  house,  owing  to 
to  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  and  the  want  of  accomoda- 
tions. 

Mine  host,  though  called  from  his  bed,  cheerfully  as 
sisted  his  guest  in  putting  away  his  tired  horse,  and  then 
led  him  through  a  room,  where  three  or  four  rough  two- 
fisted  fellows  lay  snoring  with  their  feet  to  the  fire,  to  a 
chamber  on  the  upper  floor.  Supper  he  declined,  as  well 
from  policy  as  from  want  of  appetite;  and  having  secured 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  107 

the  door,  and  laid  his  pistols  under  his  pillow,  he  gather 
ed  his  cloak  around  him,  and  threw  himself  on  the  bed. 
From  a  light  slumber  he  was  waked  by  a  low  murmur 
of  voices  in  the  apartment  below,  to  which  the  preca- 
riousness  of  his  situation  induced  him  to  listen  with  an 
intense  and  thrilling  interest.  Then  a  footstep  was  heard 
upon  the  stairs  ascending  slowly  towards  his  apartment, 
and  in  a  moment  afterwards  the  latch  was  cautiously 
raised.  He  rose,  seized  his  arms,  and  walked  across  the 
floor;  the  footsteps  retired,  the  voices  ceased  below,  and 
all  was  silent.  Our  officer  loved  his  life  as  dearly  as  other 
men,  but  it  will  only  be  attributing  to  him  on  this  occa 
sion  the  feelings  of  his  profession,  to  suppose  that  he  felt 
more  anxiety  for  his  honour,  and  the  success  of  his  enter 
prise.  His  broken  slumbers  yielded  but  little  refreshment 
during  the  remainder  of  the  night;  and  before  the  first 
gray  streak  illumined  the  eastern  horizon,  he  arose,  and 
stole  forth  with  noiseless  steps,  passed  the  snoring  board 
ers,  and  in  a  moment  breathed  the  free  fresh  air.  His 
horse  was  soon  equipped,  and  mounting,  he  rode  to  the 
door,  and  summoned  his  host,  who  was  the  first  to  hear 
his  loud  hallo.  Surprised  to  find  his  guest  in  the  saddle,  he 
made  no  reply  to  his  repeated  demand  to  know  his  fare; 
but  stepping  forward,  laid  his  hand  upon  the  bridle. 
"  Hands  off,  my  friend,"  said  the  soldier,  "  my  horse  is 
ticklish  about  the  head."  «  Light,  sir,  light!"  said  the 
host,  "  and  take  a  dram  before  you  go,  it's  a  raw  morn 
ing," — and  still  held  the  rein.  At  this  moment  other 
faces  appeared  at  the  door;  the  officer  liked  neither  their 
company  nor  their  looks,  and  dropping  a  piece  of  money 
at  the  landlord's  feet,  he  struck  the  spurs  into  the  side 
of  his  steed,  and  dashed  off  in  a  gallop,  leaving  all  danger 
behind. 


108  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 


BY  THOMAS  GODFREY. 


HIGH  in  the  midst,  rais'd  on  her  rolling  throne, 
Sublimely  eminent  bright  Fancy  shone: 
A  glitt'ring  tiara  her  temples  bound, 
Rich  set  with  sparkling  rubies  all  around; 
Her  azure  eyes  rolled  with  majestic  grace, 
And  youth  eternal  bloom'  d  upon  her  face. 
A  radiant  bough,  ensign  of  her  command, 
Of  polish'd  gold,  waved  in  her  lily  hand; 
The  same  the  sybil  to  Eneas  gave, 
When  the  bold  Trojan  cross'd  the  Stygian  wave. 
In  silver  traces  fix'd  unto  her  car, 
Four  snowy  swans,  proud  of  th'  imperial  fair, 
Wing'd  lightly  on,  each  in  gay  beauty  drest, 
Smooth'  d  the  soft  plumage  that  adorn'd  her  breast. 
Sacred  to  her  the  lucent  chariot  drew, 
Or  whether  wildly  through  the  air  she  flew, 
Or  whether  to  the  dreary  shades  of  night, 
Oppress'd  with  gloom,  she  downwards  bent  her  flight, 
Or,  proud  aspiring,  sought  the  blest  abodes, 
And  boldly  shot  among  th'  assembled  gods. 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  109 


BY  ALEXANDER  GRAYDON. 


EARLY  in  the  forenoon,  we  were  transported  to  Long 
Island  ;  marched  down  to  the  entrenchments  at  Brook 
lyn,  and  posted  on  their  left  extremity,  extending  to  the 
Wallabout.  The  arrival  of  our  two  battalions  (Shee's  and 
Magaw's  which  always  acted  together)  with  that  of  Glo 
ver,  had  the  effect,  I  have  always  found  to  be  produced, 
by  a  body  of  men  under  arms,  having  the  appearance  of 
discipline.  Although,  owing  to  the  dysentery  which  had 
prevailed  in  our  camp,  our  number  was  so  reduced,  that 
the  two  regiments  could  not  have  amounted  to  more  than 
eight  hundred  men,  making  in  the  whole,  when  joined 
with  Glover's  about  twelve  or  thirteen  hundred  j  yet  it 
was  evident  that  this  small  reinforcement,  inspired  no  in 
considerable  degree  of  confidence.  The  faces  that  had 
been  saddened  by  the  disasters  of  yesterday,  assumed  a 
gleam  of  animation,  on  our  approach  ;  accompanied  with 
a  murmur  of  approbation  in  the  spectators,  occasionally 
greeting  each  other  with  the  remark,  that  these  were  the 
lads  that  might  do  something.  Why  it  should  be  so, 
I  know  not,  but  the  mind  instinctively  attaches  an  idea 
of  prowess,  to  the  silence,  steadiness,  and  regularity  of  a 
military  assemblage  ;  and  an  hundred  well  dressed,  well 
armed,  and  well  disciplined  grenadiers,  are  more  formid 
able  in  appearance,  than  a  disjointed,  disorderly  multitude 
of  a  thousand.  Our  regiments,  to  be  sure,  could  not  ar- 
10 


110  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

rogate  such  perfection ;  but  that  they  were  distinguished 
in  our  young  army,  may  be  inferred,  from  an  official  let 
ter  from  General  Washington,  wherein  he  states  that 
"  they  had  been  trained  with  more  than  common  atten 
tion."  To  sustain  the  duty  now  imposed  upon  us,  re 
quired  strength  both  of  body  and  of  mind.  The  spot  at 
which  we  were  posted,  was  low  and  unfavourable  for  de 
fence.  There  was  ^/raised  ditch  in  its  front,  but  it 
gave  little  promise  of  security,  as  it  was  evidently  com 
manded  by  the  ground  occupied  by  the  enemy,  who  en 
tirely  enclosed  the  whole  of  our  position,  at  the  distance 
of  but  a  few  hundred  paces.  It  was  evident,  also,  that 
they  were  constructing  batteries,  which  would  have  ren 
dered  our  particular  situation  extremely  ineligible,  to 
say  the  least  of  it.  In  addition  to  this  discomfort,  we 
were  annoyed  by  a  continual  rain,  which,  though  never 
very  heavy,  was  never  less  than  a  searching  drizzle,  and 
often  what  might,  with  propriety,  be  called  a  smart  show 
er.  We  had  no  tents  to  screen  us  from  its  pitiless  pelt 
ing  ;  nor,  if  we  had  had  them,  would  it  have  comported 
with  the  incessant  vigilance  required,  to  have  availed 
ourselves  of  them,  as,  in  fact,  it  might  be  said,  that  we 
lay  upon  our  arms  during  the  whole  of  our  stay  upon 
the  island.  In  the  article  of  food,  we  were  little  better 
off.  We  had,  indeed,  drawn  provisions,  whose  quality 
was  not  to  be  complained  of.  Our  pickled  pork,  at  least, 
was  good  ;  but  how  were  we  to  cook  it?  As  this  could 
not  be  done,  it  was  either  to  be  eaten  as  it  was,  or  not 
eaten  at  all ;  and  we  found  upon  trial,  that  boiling  it,  al 
though  desirable,  was  not  absolutely  necessary ;  and  that 
the  article  was  esculent  without  culinary  preparation.  I 
remember,  however,  on  one  of  the  days  we  were  in  this 
joyless  place,  getting  a  slice  of  a  barbacued  pig,  which 
some  of  our  soldiers  had  dressed  at  a  deserted  house 
which  bounded  our  lines. 


THE  PHILADELPHIA    BOOK.  Ill 

There  was  an  incessant  skirmishing  kept  up  in  the  day 
time  between  our  riflemen  and  the  enemy's  irregulars  ; 
and  the  firing  was  sometimes  so  brisk,  as  to  indicate  an 
approaching  general  engagement.  This  was  judiciously 
encouraged  by  General  Washington,  as  it  tended  to  restore 
confidence  to  our  men,  and  was,  besides,  showing  a  good 
countenance  to  the  foe. 

On  the  morning  after  our  first  night's  watch,  Colonel 
Shee  took  me  aside,  and  asked  me  what  I  thought  of  our 
situation.  I  could  not  but  say,  I  thought  it  a  very  dis 
couraging  one.  He  viewed  it  in  the  same  light,  he  said; 
and  added,  that  if  we  were  not  soon  withdrawn  from  it, 
we  should  inevitably  be  cut  to  pieces.  So  impressed 
was  he  with  this  conviction,  that  he  desired  me  to  go  to 
the  quarters  of  General  Reed,  and  to  request  him  to  ride 
down  to  the  lines,  that  he  might  urge  him  to  propose  a 
retreat  without  loss  of  time.  I  went,  but  could  not  find 
him  at  his  quarters,  or  at  any  of  the  other  places  where 
it  was  likely  he  might  be.  It  was  not  long,  however, 
before  he  came  to  our  station,  and  gave  the  colonel  an  op 
portunity  of  conferring  with  him.  This  day  passed  off 
like  the  last,  in  unabating  skirmishing  and  rain.  After 
dark,  orders  were  received  and  communicated  to  us  regi- 
mentally,  to  hold  ourselves  in  readiness  for  an  attack 
upon  the  enemy ;  to  take  place  in  the  course  of  the 
night.  This  excited  much  speculation  among  the  officers, 
by  whom  it  was  considered  a  truly  daring  undertaking, 
rendered  doubly  so  from  the  bad  condition  of  our  arms, 
so  long  exposed  to  the  rain  :  and  although  we  had  bayo 
nets,  this  was  not  the  case  with  the  whole  of  our  force, 
upon  whom  we  must  depend  for  support.  It  was  not 
for  us,  however,  to  object  to  the  measure  :  we  were  sol 
diers,  and  bound  to  obey.  Several  nuncupative  wills 


112  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

were  made  upon  the  occasion,  uncertain  as  it  was,  whether 
the  persons  to  whom  they  were  communicated  would 
survive,  either  to  prove  or  to  execute  them.  I  was  for 
a  while  under  the  impression  that  we  were  to  fight ;  and, 
in  the  language  of  the  poet,  was  "  stiffening  my  sinews 
and  summoning  up  my  blood,"  for  what,  with  the  rest, 
I  deemed  a  desperate  encounter.  But  when  I  came  to 
consider  the  extreme  rashness  of  such  an  attempt,  it  sud 
denly  flashed  upon  my  mind,  that  a  retreat  was  the  object; 
and  that  the  order  for  assailing  the  enemy,  was  but  a  cover 
to  the  real  design.  The  more  I  reflected  upon  it,  the  more 
I  was  convinced  that  I  was  right ;  and  what  had  passed 
in  the  morning,  with  Colonel  Shee,  served  to  confirm  me 
in  my  opinion.  I  communicated  my  conjecture  to  some 
of  the  officers,  but  they  dared  not  suffer  themselves  to 
believe  it  well  founded,  though  they  gradually  came  over 
to  my  opinion  ;  and  by  midnight,  they  were,  for  the 
most  part,  converts  to  it  There  was  a  deep  murmur  in 
the  camp  which  indicated  some  movement ;  and  the  di 
rection  of  the  decaying  sounds,  was  evidently  towards 
the  river.  About  two  o'clock,  a  cannon  went  off,  appa 
rently  from  one  of  our  redoubts,  "  piercing  the  night's 
dull  ear,"  with  a  tremendous  roar.  If  the  explosion  was 
within  our  lines,  the  gun  was  probably  discharged  in  the 
act  of  spiking  it ;  and  it  could  have  been  no  less  a  matter 
of  speculation  to  the  enemy,  than  to  ourselves.  I  never 
heard  the  cause  of  it ;  but  whatever  it  was,  the  effect  was 
at  once  alarming  and  sublime  ;  and  what  with  the  great 
ness  of  the  stake,  the  darkness  of  the  night,  the  uncer 
tainty  of  the  design,  and  extreme  hazard  of  the  issue 
whatever  might  be  the  object,  it  would  be  difficult  to  con 
ceive  a  more  deeply  solemn  and  interesting  scene.  It 
never  recurs  to  my  mind,  but  in  the  strong  imagery  of 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  113 

the  chorus  of  Shakspeare's  Henry  the  Fifth,  in  which  is 
arrayed  in  appropriate  gloom,  a  similar  interval  of  dread 
suspense  and  awful  expectation. 

As  our  regiment  was  one  of  those  appointed  to  cover 
the  retreat,  we  were,  of  course,  among  the  last  to  be 
drawn  off,  and  it  was  near  day  break,  before  we  received 
orders  to  retire.  We  were  formed  without  delay,  and 
had  marched  near  half  way  to  the  river,  when  it  was  an 
nounced  that  the  British  light  horse  were  at  our  heels. 
Improbable  as  was  the  circumstance,  it  was  yet  so  strenu 
ously  insisted  upon,  that  we  were  halted  and  formed,  the 
front  rank  kneeling  with  presented  pikes,  which  we  had 
with  us,  to  receive  the  charge  of  the  supposed  assailants. 
None,  however,  appeared  ;  and  the  alarm  must  have  pro 
ceeded  from  the  fear  of  those  who  gave  it,  magnifying 
the  noise  of  a  few  of  our  own  horsemen  into  that  of 
squadrons  of  the  enemy.  We  again  took  up  the  line  of 
march,  and  had  proceeded  but  a  short  distance,  when  the 
head  of  the  battalion  was  halted  a  second  time.  The 
orders  we  had  received  were  erroneous.  We  were  in 
formed  that  we  had  come  off  too  soon,  and  were  com 
manded  with  all  expedition  to  return  to  our  post*  This 
was  a  trying  business  to  young  soldiers ;  it  was,  never 
theless,  strictly  complied  with,  and  we  remained  not  less 
than  an  hour  in  the  lines  before  we  received  the  second 
order  to  abandon  them.  It  may  be  supposed  we  did  not 
linger;  but  though  we  moved  with  celerity,  we  guarded 
against  confusion,  and  under  the  friendly  cover  of  a  thick 
fog,  reached  the  place  of  embarkation  without  annoyance 
from  the  enemy,  who,  had  the  morning  been  clear,  would 

*  This  is  stated  in  Gordon's  history,  vol.  2,  page  103,  to  have  been  ow 
ing  to  a  mistake  of  Colonel  Scammel,  who  delivered  the  orders  to  Gene- 
ral  Mifflin  to  bring  off  the  whole  covering  party,  instead  of  a  particular 
regiment. 

10* 


114 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 


have  seen  what  was  going  on,  and  been  enabled  to  cut  off 
the  greater  part  of  the  rear.  One  of  my  soldiers  being 
too  feeble  to  carry  his  musket,  which  was  too  precious  to 
be  thrown  away,  I  took  it  from  him,  and  found  myself 
able  to  carry  it,  together  with  my  own  fusee.  On  attain 
ing  the  water,  I  found  a  boat  prepared  for  my  company, 
which  immediately  embarked,  and  taking  the  helm  my 
self,  I  so  luckily  directed  the  prow,  no  object  being  dis 
cernible  in  the  fog,  that  we  touched  near  the  centre  of 
the  city.  It  was  between  six  and  seven  o'clock,  perhaps 
later,  when  we  landed  at  New  York ;  and  in  less  than  an 
hour  after,  the  fog  having  dispersed,  the  enemy  was  visi 
ble  on  the  shore  we  had  left 

Next  to  the  merit  of  avoiding  a  scrape  in  war,  is  that 
of  a  dexterous  extrication  from  it ;  and  in  this  view,  the 
removal  of  so  great  a  number  of  men,  stated  I  think  at 
nine  thousand,  with  cannon  and  stores,  in  one  night,  was, 
no  doubt,  a  masterly  movement,  though  not  classible  per 
haps  with  the  great  retreats.  The  memoirs  of  the  Duke 
of  Sully  relate  an  operation  very  similar  to  it,  and  to 
which  much  applause  is  given.  This  was  achieved  by 
the  Prince  of  Parma,  whose  army,  lying  between  Rouen 
and  Caudebec,  was  in  the  night  transported  across  the 
Seine,  and  thus  preserved  from  the  destruction  that  im 
pended  from  the  forces  of  Henry  the  Fourth,  ready  to  fall 
upon  it  in  the  morning.  "  Could  it  appear  otherwise," 
observes  the  writer,  "  than  a  fable  or  an  illusion  ?  Scarce 
could  the  king  and  his  army  trust  the  evidence  of  their 
own  eyes." 

After  a  comfortable  breakfast,  which  I  got  at  the  coffee 
house,  I  met  with  Colonel  Melchior  of  the  commissary 
department.  Being  one  of  my  old  and  particular  Phila 
delphia  acquaintances,  he  offered  me  his  bed  to  repair  my 
want  of  rest.  I  had  not  slept  for  two  nights ;  and  as  my 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  115 

brother,  a  lad  of  about  nineteen  and  an  ensign  in  the  regi 
ment,  had  undergone  the  same  fatigue,  I  took  him  along 
with  me,  and  locking  the  door  of  the  apartment  to  ex 
clude  intruders,  we  snatched  a  refreshing  nap  of  five  or 
six  hours  :  after  which  we  felt  ourselves  alert  and  ready 
for  the  further  tasks  which  duty  might  impose. 

General  Washington  has  been  censured  for  risking  his 
army  upon  Long  Island,  and  General  Howe  for  permit 
ting  it  to  escape  with  impunity.  Reasoning  from  the  facts 
which  have  evolved,  the  blame,  in  both  cases,  seems  to  be 
well  founded.  But  this  is  not  the  mode  of  judging  con 
tingent  events.  In  conducting  the  war  on  our  side,  a 
great  variety  of  interests  was  to  be  consulted.  Our  cities 
were,  if  possible,  to  be  maintained,  and  no  property  to  be 
sacrificed  without  the  most  manifest  necessity,  lest  it 
might  create  disgust  and  disaffection.  Congress,  also,  was 
to  be  obeyed ;  in  which  body  no  doubt,  there  was 
enough  of  local  feeling.  Hence,  New  York  must  be  de 
fended  ;  and  if  so,  there  was  nothing  wrong  in  risking 
an  action  on  Long  Island  ;  it  was  even  better  than  await 
ing  it  in  the  city.  Add  to  this,  that  the  combatants  had 
not  yet  measured  arms  with  each  other  ;  and  General 
Washington  was  not  without  ground  for  hope,  that  his 
troops  would  prove  equal  to  the  invaders.  He  knew  the 
British  were  not  invincible.  He  had  even  seen  them 
panic  struck  under  Braddock  and  Dunbar,  and  was  aware 
of  their  having  been  staggered  by  a  handful  of  irregulars 
at  Bunker's  hill.  But  it  is  sufficient  for  his  exculpation, 
that  the  necessity  of  attempting  the  defence  of  New 
York,  was  too  imperious  to  be  dispensed  with.  Otherwise, 
there  can  be  no  question,  that  with  the  unpromising  army 
he  commanded,  he  should  have  been  extremely  cautious 
of  committing  himself  in  insular  posts.  No  general  will, 


116  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

of  choice,  convert  his  army  into  a  garrison,  and  invite  a 
siege.  Had  this  been  done  at  New  York,  General  Howe, 
by  blockading  it,  would  soon  have  reduced  us  to  the  ne 
cessity  of  starving,  surrendering,  or  fighting  our  way  out 
again  ;  or  had  he  preferred  an  assault,  what  fortifications 
were  there  to  justify  the  assertion,  that  it  was  tenable  for 
a  single  day  ?  A  few  batteries  and  redoubts  do  not  ren 
der  a  place  capable  of  sustaining  a  siege. 

As  to  General  Howe,  I  have  scarce  a  doubt  that  he 
might  have  carried  the  entrenchments  at  Brooklyn,  and 
cut  off  the  troops  posted  there.  Even  without  intercept 
ing  with  his  ships  of  war,  the  passage  of  East  river,  the 
retreat  across  it  would  have  been  sufficiently  difficult  and 
tardy,  to  have  rendered  the  loss  of  much  the  greater  por 
tion  of  our  army  inevitable.  That  the  works  would  have 
been  well  defended  and  cost  him  a  great  many  men,  can 
neither  be  affirmed  nor  denied.  The  feelings  of  raw 
troops  are  too  uncertain  to  be  calculated  upon  ;  and  con 
sidering  what  had  recently  happened,  it  is  rather  to  be 
presumed,  that  the  defence  would  not  have  been  obsti 
nate.  But  General  Howe,  it  should  be  remembered,  was 
yet  a  stranger  to  our  circumstances  and  the  character  of 
our  force.  Though  he  had  just  vanquished  a  part  of  it 
in  the  open  field,  the  remainder  was  behind  entrench 
ments,  supported  by  redoubts  ;  and  he  had  cause  for 
being  cautious  from  what  had  happened  at  Bunker's  hill. 
Besides,  he  probably  reasoned  as  we  at  first  did,  that  our 
losses  might  be  more  easily  supplied  than  his  own  ;  and, 
from  the  boldness  of  Congress  in  declaring  independence 
in  defiance  of  the  concentrated  power  of  Britain,  he  had 
certainly  grounds  to  conclude,  that  their  resources  were 
great  and  their  army  extremely  numerous.  In  addition 
to  these  considerations  he  had  no  reason  to  calculate  on 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  117 

our  precipitate  retreat.  He  was  preparing  to  attack  us 
under  the  cover  of  batteries  ;  and,  in  that  case,  might 
have  been  enabled  to  destroy  the  rear  of  our  force  with 
little  loss  to  himself.  It  must,  however,  be  admitted, 
that  the  character  of  Sir  William's  generalship  savoured 
rather  of  caution  than  enterprise. 


118  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 


©IF 


BY  JOHN  E.  HALL. 


DAYS  of  my  youth,  ah!  whither  have  ye  fled? 
Moments  of  innocence,  of  health  and  joy, 
Unruffled  by  the  thoughts  of  worldly  care. 
With  throbs  of  sad  delight,  how  oft  I  sigh, 
When  Recollection  paints  thy  scenes  anew. 
My  steps  ye  led  to  halls  where  minstrels  struck 
The  breathing  lyre,  to  sing  of  Beauty's  charms, 
Or  chivalry's  heroic  deeds. 

Not  then,  I  pour'd 
The  melancholy  song  of  memory; 
No  solitary  tale  my  idle  hours  could  tell 
Of  sorrow;  Hope  departed;  or  Despair. 
My  dulcet  harp  was  strung  to  Rapture's  notes; 
Its  jocund  strings  re-echoed  themes  of  love, 
Or  careless  caroll'd  what  young  joys  could  teach. 
When  twilight  came,  I  sought  the  mountain's  brow, 
To  mark  her  solemn  grandeur  hastening  near. 
Then,  ah!  then,  I  woo'd  the  charms  of  silence, 
Far  from  the  pageant  show  of  restless  man, 
The  pomp  of  pride,  the  sneer  of  haughtiness: 
Malice,  with  quivering  lip,  and  gnawing  care: 
Envy,  that  blasts  the  buds  whose  perfumed  dyes 
She  fain  would  equal:  green-eyed  Jealousy: 
And  spectres  of  despair,  whom  memory  brings 
To  haunt  the  slumbering  dreams  of  guilty  men; 
Of  these  yet  ignorant,  and  their  powers  unfelt, 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  119 

I  rioted  in  youth's  gay  harvest, 

And  quaff'd  the  cup  of  roseate  health  and  joy. 

But  I  am  changed  now! 
If  e'er  I  smile,  't  is  as  the  flower  of  spring, 
Whose  tincture  blooms  through  drops  of  morning  dew! 
And  when  the  once  loved  charms  of  solitude 
I  woo,  amid  the  valley's  silence, 
Or  on  the  high  hill  top,  where  thunders  loud 
Proclaim  to  man  the  majesty  of  God, 
'T  is  not  to  bathe  in  dreams  of  shadowy  bliss, 
Or  fondly  dwell  on  scenes  of  wild  romance: 
To  weave  a  sonnet  for  my  mistress'  brow, 
Or  con  an  artless  song  to  soothe  her  ear! 
No  cheerful  thoughts  like  these  entice  my  feet 
Through  tangled  dells  or  o'er  the  mountain's  height. 
Hopeless  and  sad  in  gloomy  nooks  retired, 
I  love  to  watch  the  slow  revolving  moon, 
And  muse  on  visions  fled  of  treacherous  love, 
Of  joys  departed,  and  deceitful  hopes: 
Me,  now,  no  more  the  balmy  breeze  of  spring, 
Nor  summer's  streamlets  murm'ring  through  the  grove, 
Nor  changeful  winds  that  yellow  autumn  brings, 
Can  yield  delight — stern  winter's  joyless  gloom 
Suits  with  my  bosom's  cold  and  cheerless  state! 
Life's  purple  tide  no  more  salubrious  flows; 
The  vernal  glow  of  hope  is  fled:  and  joy, 
Shall  glad  no  more  my  once  contented  cot; 
False,  fickle  woman  drove  her  smiles  away. 

All  hail,  December's  chilling  skies! 
Come  darken  more  the  anguish  of  my  soul. 
Bring  with  thy  gloomy  hours  despair's  sad  shades — 
Bring  all  the  load  that  misery  prepares, 
To  gall  us  through  the  miry  road  of  life: 
Bring  silent  sorrow  with  her  bitter  brow: 
Bring  lovely  woman,  with  her  siren  smile, 
Like  transient  meteor  to  seduce  our  steps: 


120  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

Bring  care,  with  self-consuming  wants  oppress'd, 
And  doubt,  to  lead  us  from  our  onward  path, 
And  sharp  solicitudes  to  vex  our  nights: 
Let  war,  too,  throw  her  lured  glare  around, 
And  turn  the  savage  from  his  hunter  toils, 
To  raise  the  tomahawk  and  bend  the  bow. 
In  her  funereal  train  attendant, 
Let  famine  stalk,  and  with  insatiate  hand, 
Fell  plunder,  knowing  neither  friend  nor  foe, 
And  violence,  to  stain  the  soldier's  name. 
Let  bloody  slaughter  loose,  to  dye  with  gore 
Our  soil,  and  teach  the  world  what  evils  wait 
On  madden' d  counsels  and  ambitious  schemes. 
Accursed  schemes!  that  saw  no  wrath  denounced 
On  souls  remorseless  shedding  human  blood. 
Detested  plans!  which  bade  the  cymbals  strike, 
Roused  the  loud  clarion,  and  made  the  cannon  roar, 
To  drown  the  Saviour's  voice  proclaiming  loud, 
To  God  on  high  be  glory  given:  on  earth, 
Let  peace  among  mankind  for  ever  reign. 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 


BY  JOHN  DICKINSON. 


As  I  was  one  day  sitting  solitary  and  pensive  in  my 
primitive  arbour,  my  attention  was  engaged  by  a  strange 
sort  of  rustling  noise  at  some  paces  distance.  I  looked 
all  around  without  distinguishing  any  thing,  until  I  climb 
ed  one  of  my  great  hemp  stalks  ;  when  to  my  astonish 
ment,  I  beheld  two  snakes  of  considerable  length,  the 
one  pursuing  the  other  with  great  celerity  through  a  hemp 
stubble  field.  The  aggressor  was  of  the  black  kind,  six 
feet  long  ;  the  fugitive  was  a  water  snake,  nearly  of  equal 
dimensions.  They  soon  met,  and  in  the  fury  of  their 
first  encounter,  they  appeared  in  an  instant  firmly  twist 
ed  together  ;  and  whilst  their  united  tails  beat  the  ground, 
they  mutually  tried  with  open  jaws  to  lacerate  each  other. 
What  a  fell  aspect  did  they  present !  their  heads  were 
compressed  to  a  very  small  size,  their  eyes  flashed  fire ; 
and  after  this  conflict  had  lasted  about  five  minutes,  the 
second  found  means  to  disengage  itself  from  the  first,  and 
hurried  toward  the  ditch.  Its  antagonist  instantly  as 
sumed  a  new  posture,  and  half  creeping  and  half  erect, 
with  a  majestic  mien,  overtook  and  attacked  the  other 
again,  which  placed  itself  in  the  same  attitude,  and  pre 
pared  to  resist  The  scene  was  uncommon  and  beauti~ 
ful  ;  for  thus  opposed  they  fought  with  their  jaws,  biting 
each  other  with  the  utmost  rage ;  but  notwithstanding 
this  appearance  of  mutual  courage  and  fury,  the  water 
11 


122  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

snake  still  seemed  desirous  of  retreating  toward  the  ditch, 
its  natural  element.  This  was  no  sooner  perceived  by 
the  keen-eyed  black  one,  than  twisting  its  tail  twice 
round  a  stalk  of  hemp,  and  seizing  its  adversary  by  the 
throat,  not  by  means  of  its  jaws,  but  by  twisting  its  own 
neck  twice  round  that  of  the  water  snake,  pulled  it  back 
from  the  ditch.  To  prevent  a  defeat  the  latter  took  hold 
likewise  of  a  stalk  on  the  bank,  and  by  the  acquisition 
of  that  point  of  resistance  became  a  match  for  its  fierce 
antagonist.  Strange  was  this  to  behold  ;  two  great  snakes 
strongly  adhering  to  the  ground,  mutually  fastened  togeth 
er  by  means  of  the  writhings  which  lashed  them  to  each 
other,  and  stretched  at  their  full  length,  they  pulled  but 
pulled  in  vain  ;  and  in  the  moments  of  greatest  exertions 
that  part  of  their  bodies  which  was  entwined,  seemed 
extremely  small,  while  the  rest  appeared  inflated,  and 
now  and  then  convulsed  with  strong  undulations,  rapid 
ly  following  each  other.  Their  eyes  seemed  on  fire,  and 
ready  to  start  out  of  their  heads ;  at  one  time  the  conflict 
seemed  decided  ;  the  water  snake  bent  itself  into  two 
great  folds,  and  by  that  operation  rendered  the  other  more 
than  commonly  out-stretched  ;  the  next  minute  the  new 
struggles  of  the  black  one  gained  an  unexpected  superi 
ority,  it  acquired  two  great  folds  likewise,  which  neces 
sarily  extended  the  body  of  its  adversary  in  proportion 
as  it  had  contracted  its  own.  These  efforts  were  alter 
nate  ;  victory  seemed  doubtful,  inclining  sometimes  to  the 
one  side  and  sometimes  to  the  other ;  until  at  last  the 
stalk  to  which  the  black  snake  fastened,  suddenly  gave 
way,  and  in  consequence  of  this  accident  they  both  plun 
ged  into  the  ditch.  The  water  did  not  extinguish  their 
vindictive  rage  ;  for  by  their  agitations  I  could  trace, 
though  not  distinguish  their  mutual  attacks.  They  soon 
reappeared  on  the  surface  twisted  together,  as  in  their 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  123 

first  onset ;  but  the  black  snake  seemed  to  retain  its  wont 
ed  superiority,  for  its  head  was  exactly  fixed  above  that 
of  the  other,  which  it  incessantly  pressed  down  under 
the  water,  until  it  was  stifled,  and  sunk.  The  victor  no 
sooner  perceived  its  enemy  incapable  of  farther  resist 
ance,  than,  abandoning  it  to  the  current,  it  returned  on 
shore  and  disappeared. 


124  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 


BY  GEORGE  R.  INGERSOLL. 

IT  is  a  holy  hour.     The  deep 

Blue  vault  of  heaven  looks  beautiful, 

With  its  rich  crown  of  gems,  that  keep 

Their  silent  watch  around  the  full 

And  bright  orb'd  moon,  and  call  the  soul 

Of  man  up  from  its  grovelling, 

To  rise  upon  a  lighter  wing, 

Where  yon  majestic  planets  roll 

Their  ceaseless  course,  through  realms  of  space, 

Unknowing  bound  or  resting  place. 

How  hush'd  the  earth!  one  sound  alone 
Went  fleeting  by — 'twas  like  *  the  strain 
Of  some  lost  Peri,'  from  her  train 
Of  sisters  wandering,  and  the  tone 
Was  such  as  music's  self  might  own. 

Once  more  it  rises,  like  the  sun 
Sweet  breathing  of  an  infant's  dream 
Upon  the  air,  and  sends  a  thrill 
Of  ecstasy  along  the  stream 
Of  life  within — making  us  feel 
Our  better  natures,  and  the  mind 
An  elevating  power  to  steal 
Man  from  his  worldliness,  and  blind 
His  soul  to  deeds  of  nobler  kind. 
Again  it  breaketh!  and  the  strain 
Is  sweeter  still  than  ever.     Oh, 
How  firmly  hath  it  power  to  chain 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  125 

The  chasten'd  spirit,  and  the  flow 
Of  tears  to  summon  from  their  fount, 
Long  seal'd  perhaps  but  gushing  now 
As  freshly  'neath  the  burning  brow, 
As  limpid  streamlet  bursting  out 
From  icy  fetters,  or  the  still 
Glad  murmuring  of  the  mountain  rill. 
That  strain,  that  magic  strain  doth  call 
Remembrance  back,  and  to  the  eye 
Of  memory  brings  the  forms  of  all, 
Who  in  youth's  hour  of  ecstasy 
And  wild  enjoyment,  shared  with  us 
Our  innocent  pastime,  who  became 
Our  bosom  confidants,  and  thus 
Our  fondest  recollections  claim. 

Scenes  of  the  buried  past  it  calls 
With  vividness  to  view,  and  flings 
A  lustre  o'er  them  which  inthrals 
The  hearts,  and  to  the  fancy  brings 
Rich  images  of  faded  joys 
And  blanch' d  anticipations — such 
As  crowd  the  mind  when  sorrow  cloys 
Its  energies,  and  te  the  touch 
Of  grief  alone  the  chords  of  life 

Awaken. 

***** 

It  has  faded  now, 
As  gently  as  the  curling  snow 
Which  falleth  on  the  mountain  cliff, 
Or  as  the  airy  mist  that  moves 
Lightly  across  the  sleeping  lake, 
And  glides  in  softness  o'er  the  groves, 
Or  'mid  the  hills  where  fountains  wake 
Their  first,  faint  murmuring. 


11 


126  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

I  would  recall  it,  but  that  tone 
Hath  a  too  fearful  power  to  wring 
The  broken  spirit;  and  alone 
To  bid  the  gush  of  burning  tears, 
Unworthy  of  my  manlier  years. 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  127 


BY  MATTHEW  CAREY. 


IT  cannot  be  doubted  or  denied,  that  the  illiberal  pre 
judices  against  players,  which  many  of  us  imbibed  in 
our  early  days,  retain  over  us  an  unreasonable  and  last 
ing  influence.  But  surely,  as  we  have  emancipated  our 
selves  from  many  other  absurd  and  contemptible  Euro 
pean  prejudices,  we  ought  to  regard  this  subject  more 
correctly.  It  requires  but  a  very  moderate  exercise  of 
the  reasoning  faculty,  to  see,  that  there  is  nothing  neces 
sarily  disreputable  or  dishonourable  in  the  profession  of 
a  player.  Properly  conducted,  it  is  not  only  harmless, 
but  laudable.  Its  objects  are,  by  an  exhibition  of  natu 
ral  and  probable  events,  to  raise  our  abhorrence  of  vice 
and  our  love  of  virtue.  That  these  objects  are  some 
times  lost  sight  of,  and  that  the  tendency  of  many  dra 
matic  performances,  is  pernicious,  cannot  be  questioned. 
But  the  poorest  sciolist  must  know,  that  it  is  the  extreme 
of  absurdity  to  argue  against  the  use,  from  the  abuse  of 
any  thing  whatever.  To  form  a  perfect  player  requires 
a  rare  combination  of  talents,  which  fall  to  the  lot  of  so 
very  few,  that  there  are  not  many  more  first-rate  players 
than  first-rate  poets,  painters,  or  historians.  This  view 
of  the  subject  should  rescue  the  profession  from  the  un 
deserved  obloquy  under  which  it  has  laboured. 

The  fate  of  those  persons  concerned  in  the  theatre, 
whether  managers  or  performers,  is  very  far  from  envi- 


128  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

able,  even  when  there  is  not  an  additional  portion  of  bit 
terness  infused  into  it  by  unfeeling  spectators.  A  new 
piece,  of  intrinsic  merit,  is  very  frequently  brought 
forward  at  a  vast  expense  for  new  scenery,  decorations, 
&c.  Unfavourable  weather,  the  caprice  of  fashion,  the 
malice  of  critics,  or  other  circumstances,  will  often  de 
stroy  all  chance  of  success.  I  have  seen  Mrs.  Siddons, 
who  was  engaged,  at  an  enormous  salary,  to  play  in  Crow- 
street  theatre,  Dublin,  perform  several  nights  successive 
ly,  to  empty  pit  and  boxes,  owing  to  political  squabbles, 
which  rendered  it  for  a  time  unfashionable  to  appear  at 
the  theatre. 

The  remuneration  which  the  greater  part  of  the  per 
formers  receive,  is  but  moderate.  Their  dress  and  appear 
ance  must  be  genteel,  and  require  considerable  expense. 
They  rarely  accumulate  wealth.  Their  application  must 
be  intense.  Their  time  and  talents  are  obsequiously  de 
voted  to  promote  the  entertainment  of  the  public,  in 
those  hours  snatched  from  the  fatigues  and  pressure  of 
business.  All  these  circumstances  combined,  entitle 
them  to  be  treated  with  politeness  and  decency,  until 
they  forfeit  their  claim  by  misconduct.  But  when  an 
audience  makes  no  return  for  their  best  endeavours,  but 
the  most  mortifying  neglect,  or  even  insult  and  abuse,  all 
stimulus  to  arrive  at  excellence  is  destroyed ,  and  the  ra 
tional  enjoyment  which  the  theatre  is  so  well  calculated 
to  afford,  is  by  these  means  extremely  diminished. 

To  no  profession  whatever  is  there  less  justice  or  im 
partiality  observed  than  to  players.  A  few  of  them, 
who  have,  by  accident,  or  by  the  advantage  of  particular 
patronage,  as  often  perhaps  as  by  real  talents,  crept  into 
public  favor,  are  invariably  welcomed  on  and  ushered  off 
the  stage  with  re-echoing  plaudits,  and  this  in  many  in 
stances,  when  they  are  deserving  of  reproach  ;  while  the 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  129 

remainder,  be  their  exertions,  industry,  or  judiciousness 
of  performance  what  they  may,  are  treated  with  chilling 
neglect,  or  even  grossly  abused  and  hissed  to  furnish 
sport  for  a  thoughtless  or  unfeeling  audience. 

When  an  actor  performs  his  part  characteristically  and 
appropriately,  he  is  entitled  to  approbation,  whatever 
may  be  its  grade.  We  may  justly  say  with  the  poet, 

"  Act  well  your  part,  there  all  the  honour  lies." 

In  the  same  manner  as  we  cannot  expect  the  talents 
of  a  general  from  a  common  soldier,  nor  that  the  history 
of  the  latter  can  be  as  important  as  that  of  the  former,  it 
would  be  injustice  to  expect  as  much  interest  given  to  the 
character  of  a  Tybalt,  as  to  that  of  a  Romeo  ;  or  as  much 
abilities  displayed  by  those  actors  who  generally  perform 
the  first,  as  by  those  who  represent  the  second.  But  Ty 
balt  may  be  so  correctly  and  justly  performed,  as  to 
merit  praise,  when  Romeo  may  richly  earn  castigation. 

The  effort  to  excel,  even  when  unattended  with  com 
plete  success,  ought  to  be  regarded  with  indulgence  and 
lenity — Modest  unassuming  merit  'ought  always  to  be 
taken  under  the  protection  of  the  generous.  Many  a 
timid  performer,  whose  debut  promised  but  little  in  his 
favour,  has,  by  kindness  and  fostering  encouragement, 
been  elevated  to  a  very  high  degree  of  respectability  in 
his  profession,  to  which  he  never  would  have  attained, 
had  he  been  treated  with  rudeness  and  severity.  This 
has  been  remarkably  the  case  with  some  of  the  bright 
est  ornaments  of  the  British  stage.  Nothing  but  incorri 
gible  impudence,  vanity,  or  gross  neglect  of  the  audience 
ought  to  experience  the  merciless  severity  which  we 
sometimes  see  exercised  in  newspaper  criticisms,  and  ex 
hibited  in  the  uproar  too  often  witnessed  in  the  theatre. 


130  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

When  a  performer,  after  due  time  for  preparation,  makes 
his  appearance  on  the  stage,  depending  almost  wholly  on 
the  prompter's  assistance,  he  deserves  no  mere)7:  and  were 
Roscius  or  Garrick  themselves  restored  to  life,  and  guilty 
of  such  insolent  conduct,  they  ought  to  be  hissed.  This 
displays  so  total  an  indifference  for  the  audience,  and 
such  a  dereliction  of  duty,  as  admits  of  no  apology,  and 
unquestionably  deserves  the  most  caustic  criticism. 

Those  who  attend  dramatic  representations,  ought  to 
cherish  a  sincere  disposition  to  be  gratified.  This  is  the 
dictate  of  sound  policy,  as  it  respects  themselves,  wholly 
independent  of  all  regard  for  the  performers.  They  thus 
multiply  their  enjoyments.  Duly  considering  their  own 
imperfection,  and  the  difficulty  of  attaining  complete  ex 
cellence  in  the  theatrical  line,  they  ought  invariably  to 
lean  to  the  side  of  lenity  and  indulgence,  unless  to  re 
press  and  mortify  overweening  arrogance,  or  to  punish 
and  confound  insolent  neglect.  These  are  not  entitled  to 
mercy.  They  should  receive  none.  To  bestow  applause, 
when  truly  earned,  they  ought  to  regard  not  merely  as 
an  act  of  generosity,  but  a  real  incumbent  duty.  Every 
grade  of  performers,  from  the  highest  to  the  lowest,  will 
invariably  act  better  and  with  more  spirit,  under  the 
cheering  and  joy-inspiring  effects  of  bursts  of  applause, 
than  when  the  audience  regard  them  as  frigidly  and  un 
feelingly  as  if  they  were  delivering  lectures  on  Euclid's 
Elements,  or  on  the  ethics  of  the  Stoic  philosophers.  The 
tameness  and  sang  froid  of  an  audience  communicates  it 
self  by  sympathy  to  the  performers. 

By  pursuing  the  plan  here  recommended,  the  audience 
will  inspire  the  players  with  confidence,  give  respecta 
bility  to  the  theatre,  and  more  completely  attain  the  end 
they  propose  by  visiting  it,  than  by  the  present  wretch 
ed  system  of  paralyzing  indifference,  or  revolting  in 
sult. 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  131 

Will  the  formidable  host  of  newspaper  critics  allow 
me  to  address  a  few  words  to  them  on  this  subject,  with 
all  due  deference  ?  The  object  of  theatrical  criticism  is 
not,  as  some  seem  to  believe,  merely  to  expose  faults, 
and  deal  forth  censure.  This  is  a  most  egregious  error, 
and,  to  say  no  worse  of  it,  implies  great  defect  of  judg 
ment  at  least.  There  is  more  true  taste  and  infinitely 
more  goodness  evinced,  by  an  ingenious  and  accurate  dis 
covery  of  excellence,  and  by  appropriate  and  just  enco 
mium,  than  by  the  detection  and  display  of  imperfection 
and  deformity.  Even  when  censure  is  really  necessary, 
it  ought  to  be  delivered  with  delicacy.  The  critic  ought 
to  consider  what  would  be  his  own  sensations,  were  he 
dragged  forward  and  abused  without  the  power  of  de 
fence.  All  the  purposes  of  criticism  may  be  effectually 
answered  without  wounding  the  feelings  of  performers, 
even  of  mediocre  talents.  On  such,  praise  may  be  very 
frequently  bestowed  without  violating  truth  ;  and  op 
portunities  of  doing  this,  ought  to  be  seized,  when  they 
occur.  Over  occasional  errors,  arising  from  the  imperfec 
tion  inherent  in  human  nature,  a  veil  may  be  sometimes 
drawn  without  impropriety.  Let  the  critic  bear  in  eter 
nal  remembrance,  that  he  wages  a  very  unequal  war  with 
the  performer,  who,  however  his  superior  in  other  points, 
may  be  totally  unaccustomed  to  write,  or,  even  if  he  be 
not,  is  debarred  of  the  advantage  of  newspapers  to  make 
his  defence,  or  to  retort  the  attack — and  is  even  totally 
ignorant  of  his  persecutors.  This  consideration  would 
disarm  a  truly  generous  assailant.  Such  a  man  would 
scorn  to  attack  an  enemy  on  unfair  terms.  Let  the  critic, 
too,  reflect,  that  however  elegantly  he  rounds  off  his  peri 
ods,  and  however  sportively  he  may  write,  his  labours 
tend  to  dry  up  the  source  which  supplies  sustenance  to 
a  considerable  number  of  people.  While  he  is  thinning 


132  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

the  seats  of  the  playhouse,  he  is  depriving  many  of  bread. 
This,  I  need  not  say,  is  a  truly  serious  consideration. 
The  character  of  an  assassin  who  stabs  in  the  dark,  can 
not  be  a  very  desirable  one.  Yet  in  the  awful  name  of 
the  Maker  of  heaven  and  earth  and  of  all  things  therein, 
what  other  term  can  be  applied  to  the  anonymous 
writer,  who,  goaded  on  by  the  blackest  malignity,  re 
morselessly  pursues  his  unoffending,  his  defenceless,  his 
prostrate  victim,  till  he  renders  life  an4nsupportable  bur 
den,  and  hurries  him  on  to  the  awful  precipice  of  self- 
murder  ! 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  133 


BY  RICHARD  RUSH. 


A  COUNTRY  is  not  to  be  understood  by  a  few  months' 
residence  in  it.  So  many  component  parts  go  to  make 
up  the  grand  total,  where  civilisation,  and  freedom,  and 
power,  are  on  a  large  scale,  that  the  judgment  gets  per 
plexed.  It  pauses  for  re-examination.  It  must  be  slow 
in  coming  to  conclusions,  if  it  would  be  right.  Often  it 
must  change  them.  A  member  of  the  diplomatic  corps, 
an  enlightened  and  shrewd  observer,  said  to  me  a  few 
days  ago,  that,  at  the  end  of  his  first  year,  he  thought  he 
knew  England  very  well ;  when  the  third  year  had  gone 
by,  he  began  to  have  doubts  ;  and  that  now,  after  a  still 
longer  time,  his  opinions  were  more  unsettled  than  ever. 
Some  he  had  changed  entirely  ;  others  had  undergone 
modification,  and  he  knew  not  what  fate  was  before  the 
rest. 

There  was  reason  in  his  remark.  If  it  be  not  contra 
dictory,  I  would  say,  that  he  showed  his  good  judgment 
in  appearing  to  have  at  present  no  judgment  at  all.  The 
stranger  sees  in  England,  prosperity  the  most  amazing, 
with  what  seems  to  strike  at  the  root  of  all  prosperity. 
He  sees  the  most  profuse  expenditure,  not  by  the  nobles 
alone,  but  large  classes  besides  ;  and  throughout  classes  far 
larger,  the  most  resolute  industry  supplying  its  demands 
and  repairing  its  waste  ;  taxation  strained  to  the  utmost, 
with  an  ability  unparalleled  to  meet  it  ;  pauperism  that  is 
12 


134  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

startling,  with  public  and  private  charity  munificent  and 
unfailing,  to  feed,  clothe,  and  house  it ;  the  boldest  free 
dom,  with  submission  to  law ;  ignorance  and  crime  so 
widely  diffused  as  to  appal,  with  genius,  and  learning, 
and  virtue  to  reassure  ;  intestine  commotions  perpetu 
ally  predicted,  and  never  happening  ;  constant  complaints 
of  poverty  and  suffering,  with  constant  increase  in  ag 
gregate  wealth  and  power.  These  are  some  of  the  ano 
malies  which  he  sees.  How  is  he  then  at  once  to  pass 
upon  them  all  ?  he,  a  stranger,  when  the  foremost  of  the 
natives  in  knowledge  and  intelligence,  do  nothing  but 
differ  after  studying  them  a  life-time  ;  when  in  every 
journal,  every  book,  every  pamphlet  that  comes  out 
about  England  politically,  he  reads  scarcely  any  thing 
but  conflicting  assertions,  conflicting  opinions,  conflicting 
conclusions;  when  this  isalike'the  case  in  their  parliament 
ary  speeches — even  in  the  very  statements  and  evidence 
contained  in  the  elaborate  reports  emanating  from  the 
same  body. 

One  of  the  things  that  strike  me  most,  is  their  daily 
press.  By  nine  in  the  morning,  the  newspapers  are  on 
my  breakfast  table,  containing  the  debate  of  the  prece 
ding  night.  This  is  the  case,  though  it  may  have  lasted 
until  one,  two,  or  three  in  the  morning.  There  is  no 
disappointment  ;  hardly  a  typographical  error.  The 
speeches  on  both  sides  are  given  with  like  care  and  ful 
ness  ;  a  mere  rule  of  justice  to  be  sure,  without  which 
the  paper  would  have  no  credit ;  but  fit  to  be  mention 
ed  where  party  feeling  always  runs  as  high  as  in  Eng 
land. 

This  promptitude  is  the  result  of  what  alone  could  pro 
duce  it;  an  unlimited  command  of  subdivided  labour  ol 
the  hand  and  mind.  The  proprietors  of  the  great  news 
papers,  employ  as  many  stenographers  as  they  want. 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  135 

One  stays  until  his  sheet  is  full  ;  he  proceeds  with  it  to 
the  printing  office,  where  he  is  soon  followed  by  another 
with  his  ;  and  so  on,  until  the  last  arrives.  Thus  the 
debate  as  it  advances  is  in  progress  of  printing,  and  when 
finished,  is  all  in  type  but  the  last  part.  Sometimes  it 
will  occupy  twelve  and  fourteen  broad,  closely-printed, 
columns.  The  proprietors  enlist  the  most  able  pens  for 
editorial  articles ;  and  as  correspondents,  from  different 
parts  of  Europe.  Their  pecuniary  ability  to  do  so,  may 
be  judged  of  from  the  fact,  that  the  leading  papers  pay 
to  the  government  an  annual  tax  in  stamps,  of  from 
twenty  to  fifty  thousand  pounds  sterling.  I  have  been 
told  that  some  of  them  yield  a  profit  of  fifteen  thousand 
pounds  sterling  a  year,  after  paying  this  tax,  and  all  ex 
penses.  The  profits  of  "  The,  Times"  are  said  to  have 
exceeded  eighteen  thousand  a  year.  The  cost  of  a  daily 
paper  to  a  regular  subscriber,  is  about  ten  pounds  sterling 
a  year  ;  but  subdivision  comes  in  to  make  them  cheap. 
They  are  circulated  by  agents  at  a  penny  an  hour  in  Lon 
don.  When  a  few  days  old,  they  are  sent  to  the  provin 
cial  towns,  and  through  the  country,  at  reduced  prices. 
In  this  manner,  the  parliamentary  debates  and  proceed 
ings,  impartially  and  fully  reported,  go  through  the  na 
tion.  The  newspaper  sheet  is  suited  to  all  this  service, 
being  large,  the  paper  substantial,  and  type  good.  No 
thing  can  exceed  the  despatch  with  which  the  numerous 
impressions  are  worked  off,  the  mechanical  operations 
having  reached  a  perfection  calculated  to  astonish  those 
who  would  examine  them. 

What  is  done  in  the  courts  of  law,  is  disseminated  in 
the  same  way.  Every  argument,  trial,  and  decision,  of 
whatever  nature,  or  before  whatever  court,  goes  immedi 
ately  into  the  newspapers.  There  is  no  delay.  The  fol 
lowing  morning  ushers  it  forth.  I  took  the  liberty  of 


136  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

remarking  to  one  of  the  judges,  upon  the  smallness  of 
the  rooms  in  which  the  courts  of  King's  Bench  and 
Chancery  sit,  when  the  proceedings  were  so  interesting 
that  great  numbers  of  the  public  would  like  to  hear  them. 
t(We  sit,"  said  he,  'every  day  in  the  newspapers" 
How  much  did  that  answer  comprehend  !  what  an  in 
crease  of  responsibility  in  the  judge  !  I  understood,  from 
a  source  not  less  high,  that  the  newspapers  are  as  much 
to  be  relied  upon,  as  the  books  of  law  reports  in  which 
the  cases  are  afterwards  published  ;  that,  in  fact,  the 
newspaper  report  is  apt  to  be  the  best,  being  generally 
the  most  full,  as  well  as  quite  accurate.  If  not  the  lat 
ter,  the  newspaper  giving  it  would  soon  fall  into  disre 
pute,  and  give  way  to  more  accurate  competitors.  Hence, 
he  who  keeps  his  daily  London  paper,  has,  at  the  year's 
end,  a  volume  of  the  annual  law  reports  of  the  kingdom, 
besides  all  other  matter  ;  and  what  variety,  what  enter 
tainment,  what  a  fund  of  original  discussion  and  anecdote, 
does  every  paper  contain  ! 

In  the  discussions,  editorial  as  otherwise,  there  is  a  re 
markable  fearlessness.  Things  that  in  Junius'  time  would 
have  put  London  in  a  flame,  and  things  as  well  written, 
pass  almost  daily  without  notice.  Neither  the  sovereign 
nor  his  family  are  spared.  Parliament  sets  the  example, 
and  the  newspapers  follow.  Of  this,  the  debates  on  the 
royal  marriages  in  the  course  of  the  present  month,  give 
illustrations.  There  are  countries  in  which  the  press  is 
more  free,  by  law,  than  with  the  English  ;  for  although 
they  impose  no  previous  restraints,  their  definition  of 
libel  is  so  loose,  that  a  jury  may  make  one  out  of  almost 
any  thing  ;  but  perhaps  no  where  has  the  press,  in  point 
of  fact,  so  much  latitude. 

Every  thing  goes  into  the  newspapers.     In  other  coun- 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  137 

tries,  matter  of  a  public  nature  may  be  seen  in  them ;  here, 
in  addition,  you  see  perpetually  the  concerns  of  mere  in 
dividuals.  Does  a  private  gentleman  come  to  town,  or 
take  his  departure  for  Brighton?  you  hear  it  in  the  news 
papers;  does  he  build  a  house,  or  buy  an  estate?  they  give 
the  information;  does  he  entertain  his  friends;  you  have 
all  their  names  next  day  in  type,  with  sometimes  also  a 
list  of  the  very  dishes  and  courses;  is  the  drapery  of  a 
lady's  drawing  room  changed  from  red  damask  and  gold 
to  white  satin  and  silver  ?  the  fact  is  publicly  announced. 
So  of  a  thousand  other  things.  The  first  burst  of  it  all 
upon  Madame  de  Stael,  led  her  to  remark,  that  the  Eng 
lish  seemed  to  have  realized  the  fable  of  living  with  a 
window  in  their  bosoms.  It  may  be  thought  that  this  is 
confined  to  a  class,  who,  surrounded  by  the  allurements 
of  wealth,  seek  this  kind  of  publicity  to  their  names  and 
movements.  If  it  were  only  so,  the  class  is  large,  be 
yond  all  parallel,  in  England  ;  but  its  influence  affects 
other  classes,  giving  each  in  their  way  the  habit  of  allow 
ing  their  personal  inclinations  and  objects  to  be  dealt 
with  in  print ;  so  that,  altogether,  these  are  thrown  upon 
the  public  to  an  extent  without  example  in  any  other 
country,  ancient  or  modern.  When  the  drama  at  Athens 
took  cognisance  of  private  life,  what  was  said  became 
known  first  to  a  few  listeners  ;  then  to  a  small  town  ; 
but  in  three  days,  a  London  newspaper  reaches  every 
part  of  the  kingdom,  and  in  three  months  every  part  of 
the  globe. 

Some  will  suppose  that  the  newspapers  govern  the 
country.  Nothing  would  be  more  unfounded.  There 
is  a  power  not  only  in  the  government,  but  in  the  coun 
try  itself  above  them,  and  this  lies  in  the  educated  class 
es.  True,  the  daily  press  is  of  the  educated  class  ;  for 

12* 


138  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

its  conductors  hold  the  pens  of  scholars,  often  of  states 
men.  Hence,  you  see  no  editorial  personalities  ;  which, 
moreover,  the  public  would  not  bear.  But  what  goes 
into  the  columns  of  newspapers,  no  matter  from  what 
sources,  comes  into  contact  with  equals  at  least  in  mind 
among  readers,  and  a  thousand  to  one  in  number.  The 
bulk  of  these  are  unmoved  by  what  newspapers  say,  if 
opposite  to  their  own  opinions  ;  which  passing  quickly 
from  one  to  another  in  a  society  where  population  is 
dense,  make  head  against  the  daily  press,  after  its  first 
efforts  are  spent  upon  classes  less  enlightened.  Half  the 
people  of  England  live  in  towns,  which  augments  moral 
as  physical  power  ;  the  last,  by  strengthening  rural  parts 
through  demand  for  their  products — the  first  by  sharp 
ening  intellect  through  opportunities  of  collision.  The 
daily  press  could  master  opposing  mental  forces,  if  scat 
tered  ;  but  not  when  they  can  combine.  The  general 
literature  of  the  country  also  reacts  against  newspapers. 
The  permanent  press,  as  distinct  from  the  daily,  teems 
with  productions.  There  is  a  great  and  powerful  class 
of  authors  always  existent  in  England,  whose  sway  ex 
ceeds  that  of  the  newspapers  as  the  main  body  the  pio 
neers.  The  periodical  literature  is  also  effective  ;  a  match 
at  least  for  the  newspapers,  when  its  time  arrives.  It  is 
more  elementary  ;  less  hasty.  In  a  word,  the  daily  press 
in  England,  with  its  floating  capital  in  talents,  zeal,  and 
money,  can  do  much  at  an  onset.  It  is  an  organised 
corps,  full  of  spirit  and  always  ready  ;  but  there  is  a 
higher  power  of  mind  and  influence  behind,  that  can 
rally  and  defeat  it.  From  the  latter  source  it  may  also 
be  presumed,  that  a  more  deliberate  judgment  will  in  the 
end  be  formed  on  difficult  questions,  than  from  the  first 
impulses  and  more  premature  discussions  of  the  daily 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  139 

journals.  The  latter  move  in  their  proper  orbit  by  re 
flecting  also,  in  the  end,  the  higher  judgment  by  which 
they  have  been  controlled.  Such  are  some  of  the  con 
siderations  that  strike  the  stranger  who  reads  their  daily 
newspapers.  They  make  a  wonderful  part  of  the  social 
system  in  England. 


140  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 


BY  W.  H.  FURNESS. 


OUR  childhood's  joys.     How  oft  this  tale  is  told! 
Yet  where  is  he  to  whom  this  tale  is  old? 
Why  do  we  turn  so  gladly  to  the  days, 
When  the  heart  bask'd  beneath  life's  morning  rays? 
Why  for  those  scenes  of  joy,  those  dreams  of  bliss, 
That  place  my  soul  in  any  world  but  this, 
Why  back  to  early  pleasures  do  I  fly? 
What  grants  to  youth  this  grand  monopoly? 
O  there's  a  joy  in  youth,  ne'er  felt  again, 
The  joy  of  new-found  being  fills  us  then, 
The  novelty  of  life — the  buoyant  sense 
Of  young  existence,  exquisite,  intense. 
Let  woe  come  then,  beneath  the  heart's  own  ray 
How  soon  it  melts  like  moon-lit  clouds  away! 
Then  the  brief  past  has  no  regrets  to  fling 
Athwart  our  minds,  and  memory  no  sting. 
Then  time  flies  fast,  while  laughing  childhood  throws 
Handfuls  of  roses  at  him,  as  he  goes. 
And  all  the  future  like  a  lake  is  spread, 
A  calm  expanse  beneath  Hope's  angel  tread. 
When  young  we  gaze  on  life  as  on  a  show, 
The  bright  we  love,  and  let  the  gloomy  go. 
Worlds  of  our  own  creation  rise  around, 
Where  not  one  form  of  sorrow  can  be  found. 
But  all  the  scene  our  playful  fancy  fills 
With  fairy  gifts,  and  glittering  pinnacles! 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  141 

•wsr  ' 

We  never  think,  while  yet  but  "  fools  to  fame," 

What  mighty  passions  shall  our  hearts  inflame; 

Nor  dream  the  current,  that  within  our  veins 

Rolls  to  the  music  of  mirth's  careless  strains, 

Will  ever  rush  in  maddening  course  along, 

Roused  by  ambition  and  the  deeds  of  song. 

Home  is  our  realm,  our  throne  a  mother's  knee, 

Our  crown,  her  smile  bent  o'er  us  lovingly. 

And  then  alone,  ere  that  unholy  throng 

Of  giant  passions  which  time  leads  along 

Rush  in  and  trample  on  life's  springing  flowers — 

Then,  only  then,  sweet  innocence  is  ours. 

All,  all  is  peace  within — we  do  not  start 

To  read  the  pages  of  a  child's  pure  heart, 

No  lines  are  there  which  we  would  wish  were  not, 

The  virgin  leaves  are  yet  without  a  blot. 

O  well  did  He,  to  whom  all  power  was  given, 

To  bring  our  wandering  spirits  back  to  heaven, 

Call  little  children  to  him  and  declare, 

"  Resemble  these  or  never  enter  there." 

And  well  may  we,  through  all  our  coming  years, 

To  childhood's  unstain'd  joys  look  back  with  tears, 

Sigh  to  forget  the  cares  of  busy  men, 

And  long  to  live  them  o'er — those  happy  times  again! 


142  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 


BY  JOHN  SERGEANT. 


EDUCATION,  in  all  its  parts,  is  a  concern  of  so  much  con 
sequence,  so  deeply  and  vitally  interesting,  that  it  ought 
not  to  be  exposed,  without  great  caution,  to  hazardous 
experiments  and  innovations.  Is  it,  then,  susceptible  of 
no  improvement?  Is  the  human  mind,  progressive  upon 
all  other  subjects,  to  be  stationary  upon  this?  Shall  not 
education  be  allowed  to  advance  with  the  march  of  intel 
lect,  and  its  path  be  illuminated  with  the  increased  and 
increasing  light  of  the  age?  Or  shall  it  be  condemned  to 
grope  in  the  imperfect  twilight,  while  every  thing  else 
enjoys  the  lustre  of  a  meridian  sun?  These  are  imposing 
questions  which  are  not  to  be  answered  by  a  single  word. 
Admitting  the  general  truth  of  that  which  they  seem  to 
assert,  namely,  that  education,  in  all  its  departments,  ought 
to  be  carried  to  the  highest  attainable  perfection,  and  that 
the  methods  of  reaching  that  point  deserve  our  most  anx 
ious  and  continued  attention  —  it  must  at  the  the  same  time 
be  apparent,  that  as  long  as  the  argument  is  merely  specu 
lative,  implying  objections  to  existing  methods  of  instruc 
tion,  and  raising  doubts  about  their  value,  without  offering 
a  distinct  and  approved  substitute,  great  danger  is  to  be 
apprehended  from  its  circulation. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  improvement  may  be  made  in 
the  seminaries  of  our  country  —  there  is  no  doubt  that  it 
ought  to  be  made  —  and  it  is  quite  certain  that  it  requires 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  143 

nothing  but  the  support  of  enlightened  public  sentiment 
to  bring  it  into  operation.  The  improvement  adverted  to 
is  improvement  in  degree — a  better  preparation  for  ad 
mission  into  college — a  somewhat  later  age,  and  of  course 
more  mature  powers — and,  as  a  consequence,  higher  and 
more  thorough  teaching.  The  result  can  not  be  secured, 
unless  the  means  are  employed;  and  their  employment 
does  not  depend  upon  those  who  are  immediately  entrust 
ed  with  the  care  of  the  instruction  of  youth.  Professors 
and  teachers  would  unfeignedly  rejoice,  in  raising  the 
standard  of  education — in  advancing  their  pupils  further 
and  further  in  the  path  of  learning — if  parents,  duly  esti 
mating  its  importance,  could  be  prevailed  upon  to  afford 
them  the  opportunity — for  they,  (unless  totally  unfit  for 
their  trust,)  must  be  justly  and  conscientiously  convinced 
of  the  value  of  such  improvement.  But  their  voice  is 
scarcely  listened  to.  By  a  prejudice,  as  absurd  and  un 
reasonable  as  it  is  unjust,  they  are  supposed  to  be  seeking 
only  to  advance  their  own  interest;  and  their  testimony 
is,  on  that  account,  disregarded;  when,  upon  every  prin 
ciple  by  which  human  evidence  ought  to  be  tried,  it  is 
entitled  to  the  highest  respect.  Their  means  of  know 
ledge  are  greater  than  those  of  other  men.  They  learn 
from  daily  experience — they  learn  from  constant  and 
anxious  meditation — they  learn  from  habitual  occupation. 
It  is  theirs  to  watch  with  parental  attention,  and  with 
more  than  parental  intelligence,  the  expanding  powers  of 
the  pupils  committed  to  their  charge.  It  is  theirs  to  ob 
serve  the  influence  of  discipline  and  instruction  in  nume 
rous  instances,  as  it  operates  upon  our  nature — and  it  is 
theirs,  too,  with  parental  feeling  to  note  the -issues  of  their 
labours,  in  the  lives  of  those  who  have  been  under  their 
charge — to  rejoice  with  becoming  pride,  when  following 
an  alumnus  of  the  college  with  the  eye  of  affectionate  ten- 


144  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

derness,  they  see  him  steadily  pursuing  a  straight  forward 
and  elevated  path,  and  becoming  a  good  and  an  eminent 
man — and  to  mourn,  with  unaffected  sorrow,  over  those 
who  have  fallen  by  the  way,  disappointing  the  hopes  of 
their  parents  and  friends,  turning  to  naught  the  counsels 
and  cares  that  have  been  bestowed  upon  them,  and  inflict 
ing  pain  and  misery  upon  all  who  felt  an  interest  in  their 
welfare.  Experto  crede,  is  the  maxim  of  the  law;  and 
it  is  no  less  the  maxim  of  common  sense.  Why  is  it  not 
to  be  applied  to  the  case  under  consideration,  as  it  is  to 
all  others  which  are  to  be  determined  by  evidence?  The 
sneering  and  vulgar  insinuation  sometimes  hazarded  by 
those  who  find  it  easier  to  sneer  and  insinuate,  than  to 
reason,  that  teachers,  as  a  body,  have  a  peculiar  interest 
of  their  own,  sufficient,  upon  questions  which  concern 
their  vocation,  to  bring  into  doubt  the  integrity  of  their 
judgment,  and  thus  to  make  them  incompetent  to  be  wit 
nesses,  if  rightly  considered,  is  not  so  much  an  insult  to 
this  useful  and  honourable,  and  I  may  add,  in  general, 
faithful  class  of  men,  as  it  is  to  thg  parents  who  entrust 
them  with  their  children.  What  judgment  shall  we  form 
of  their  intelligence — what  shall  we  say  of  their  regard 
for  their  offspring,  if,  at  the  most  critical  period  of  life, 
they  place  the  forming  intellect  in  the  hands  of  men  of 
more  than  questionable  integrity,  to  be  fashioned  by  them 
into  fantastic  shapes  to  suit  their  own  purposes,  or  gratify 
their  own  whims?  The  truth  is,  that  it  is  an  appeal  to 
ignorance,  which  can  succeed  only  with  those  who  are 
unable  or  unwilling  to  think,  and  is  employed  chiefly  for 
want  of  solid  argument. 

The  circumstances  of  our  country,  it  must  be  admitted, 
have  encouraged  and  have  favoured  an  early  entrance  into 
life,  and  so  far  have  been  averse  to  extended  education. 
This  cause  has  naturally,  and  to  a  certain  extent,  justifi- 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  145 

ably,  induced  parents  to  yield  to  the  restless  eagerness 
of  youth,  always  anxious  to  escape  from  the  trammels  of 
discipline,  and  confide  in  the  strength  of  their  untried 
powers. 

Pride,  too,  a  false  and  injurious  pride  is  apt  to  lend  its 
assistance.  Instead  of  measuring  the  child's  progress  by 
his  advancement  in  learning  and  in  years,  the  parent  is 
too  much  inclined  to  dwell  only  upon  the  advance  he  has 
made  in  his  classes,  and  to  note,  with  peculiar  gratifica 
tion,  the  fact,  that  he  is  the  youngest  of  the  graduates. 
Often,  when  it  is  evident  to  the  teacher,  that  the  pupil's 
lasting  interest  would  be  promoted  by  reviewing  a  part 
of  his  course,  the  very  suggestion  of  being  put  back,  is 
received  as  an  affront,  and  indignantly  rejected,  though 
offered  from  the  kindest  and  best  considered  motives.  It 
is  a  mistake,  a  great  mistake.  To  hurry  a  youth  into  col 
lege,  and  hurry  him  out  of  it,  that  he  may  have  the  bar 
ren  triumph  of  extraordinary  forwardness,  is  to  forget  the 
very  end  and  object  of  education,  which  is  to  give  him 
the  full  benefit  of  all  that  he  can  acquire  in  the  period, 
which  precedes  his  choice  of  a  pursuit  for  life.  What  is 
gained  by  it?  If,  as  frequently  happens,  he  be  too  young 
to  enter  upon  the  study  of  a  profession,  there  is  an  awk 
ward  interval  when  he  is  left  to  himself;  he  is  almost  sure 
to  misapply  and  waste  his  precious  time,  and  is  in  great 
danger  of  contracting  permanent  habits  of  idleness  and 
dissipation.  But  even  should  this  not  be  the  case,  of  what 
consequence  is  it  to  him,  that  he  should  enter  upon  a  pro 
fession  a  year  sooner  or  later,  compared  with  the  loss  of 
the  opportunity  of  deepening,  and  widening,  and  strength 
ening  the  foundations  of  character,  which  are  then  to  be 
laid  in  a  seminary  of  learning.  This  opinion  is  not  with 
out  decided  support.  Many  intelligent  parents  have  been 
observed  to  adopt  it  in  practice,  voluntarily  lengthening 
,  13 


146  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

out  the  education  of  their  children  beyond  the  ordinary 
limits.  Such  an  improvement  as  has  now  been  alluded  to, 
ought  unquestionably  to  be  aimed  at.  The  progress  of 
liberal  education  ought  to  bear  some  proportion  to  the  ra 
pid  advances  our  country  is  making  in  other  respects,  and 
to  the  character  and  standing  which  her  wealth,  her 
strength,  and  her  resources  require  her  to  maintain.  It  is 
especially  due  to  the  nature  of  our  republican  institutions, 
in  order  to  win  for  them  still  higher  esteem  with  mankind, 
that  their  capacity  should  be  demonstrated,  to  encourage 
and  produce  whatever  is  calculated  to  adorn  and  to  im 
prove  our  nature,  and  to  contribute  our  full  proportion  to 
the  great  society  of  learning  and  letters  in  the  world.  It 
would  be  much  to  be  regretted,  if  the  multiplication  of 
colleges  were  to  have  the  contrary  effect,  of  lowering  the 
standard  of  education,  or  of  preventing  its  progressive 
elevation.  Let  the  competition  among  them  be,  not  who 
shall  have  the  most  pupils  within  their  walls,  but  who 
shall  make  the  best  scholars!  • 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  147 


BY  DR.  R.  M.  BIRD. 


THAT  day  the  spirit  of  the  monarch  fled, 

His  hand  was  nerveless,  and  his  heart  was  dead  : 

Around  him  thousands  in  their  armour  stood, 

And,  marvelling,  watched  their  gloomy  leader's  mood. 

On  his  strong  limbs  the  jointed  brass  was  hung, 

The  tempered  falchion  on  his  harness  rung  ; 

Strapped  to  his  arm,  the  plaited  buckler  shone, 

And  spear  and  jav'lin  at  his  feet  were  thrown. 

From  his  dark  front  the  frowning  plume  descends, 

On  his  brow  waves,  and  o'er  his  shoulder  bends  ; 

And  such  a  brow  !  while  all  around,  elate 

With  triumph  shone,  or  wrinkled  black  with  hate, 

His,  his  alone  of  all  the  martial  crew, 

Retained  a  ghastly  and  a  craven  hue. 

Yet  not  from  fear  th'  unusual  colour  came, 

Nor  deadly  hatred,  nor  consuming  shame  : 

No  longer  these  had  interest  or  control  ; 

The  fit,  the  horror  is  upon  his  soul  !* 

Shall  the  harp  ring  his  flagging  spirits  on  ? 
Ah  no  !  the  harper  that  could  soothe  is  gone  : 
The  harp  rejected  for  the  vengeful  brand, 
The  son  of  Jesse  leads  the  hostile  band.f 

*  But  the  spirit  of  the  Lord  departed  from  Saul,  and  an  evil  spirit 
fjrom  the  Lord  troubled  him.     1  Samuel,  c.  xvi.  v  14. 

f  "  David  and  his  men  passed  on  in  the  rearward  with  Achish."    (I 


148  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

Then  sound  the  clarion,  wake  the  timbrel  shrill 
Pale  and  abstracted  is  his  aspect  still. 
Strike  then  the  cymbal  and  the  rolling  drum  f. — 
His  God  has  left  him,  and  his  hour  is  come.* 

His  captains  spoke  ;  the  warrior  raised  his  eye, — 

"  And  these,"  the  gloomy  prophet  said,  "  must  die." 

His  sons  rebuked  him, — "  Ye  must  also  fall, 

And  they,  and  I,  and  Israel,  and  all."f 

"  Know  ye  the  weapon  that  ye  bear  in  hand  ?" 

The  wistful  monarch  looked  upon  his  brand  : — 

*'  Ay,  sons,  my  steel — a  warrior's  woik  has  done, 

And  soon  shall  finish  what  the  Lord  begun 4 

Ye  gaze  on  it,  and  then  survey  the  foe ; 

Ye  know  'twill  smite,  but  that  is  all  ye  know. 

Proud  steel !  the  prophet  tells  me  what  thou  art, — 

The  night  shall  find  thee  in  a  monarch's  heart. 

Why  stand  I  here  to  descant  on  my  shame  ? 

He  told  me  not  that  I  was  lost  to  fame  ! 

He  told  me  not,  my  sinews  should  deny 

Their  wonted  office,  or  be  stretched  to  fly  ! 

Come,  chiefs,  array  !  light  up  your  martial  fire  ; 

Like  Saul  ye  conquer,  or  like  Saul  expire  !" 

As  rocks  that  topple  from  some  mountain  hoar, 
Crash  in  the  waves,  and  drive  them  to  the  shore  ; 
Or  howling  torrents  that  from  high  hills  leap, 
And  o'er  the  valleys  with  destruction  sweep  ; 

Sam.  xxix.  2.)  The  jealousy  of  the  Philistine  lords,  however,  caused 
Achish  to  send  David  back  into  the  land  of  the  Philistines ;  and  he 
did  not  appear  in  this  battle. 

*  The  Lord  is  departed  from  thee,  and  is  become  thine  enemy.  1 
Samuel,  ch.  xxviii.  v.  16, 

tCh.xxviii.v.19. 

t  The  Lord  shall  deliver  the  host  of  Israel  into  the  hand  of  the  Philis 
tines.  I  Samuel,  xxviii,  16—20, 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  149 

So  from  Gilboa's  reverend  slope  they  fly, 

Charge  with  the  Gentiles,  with  the  Gentiles  die, 

Batter'd  and  dripping  with  the  scarlet  gore, 

Their  shields  and  swords  reflect  the  sun  no  more  ; 

Fierce  through  the  ranks  the  scythed  chariots  flash, 

And  mow  out  alleys  wheresoe'er  they  dash : 

The  prancing  charger  neighs  and  springs  in  air, 

And  treads  down  hundreds  that  the  sabres  spare ; 

By  furious  arms  opposing  spears  are  thrust, 

And  man  and  steed  together  bite  the  dust.« — 

Hark !  hark !  a  shriek !  'twas  loud,  and  wild,  and  shrill, 

Echoed  in  thunder  from  the  shuddering  hill ; 

And  caverned  silence,  maddened  with  the  sound, 

Opes  his  scared  lips,  and  pours  the  yell  around. 

Ah  me  !  how  yonder  spouting  rills  are  dyed 

With  crimson  issue  from  the  Hebrew's  side  ; 

And  the  green  grass,  with  dew  late  sprinkled  o'er, 

Smokes  up  to  heaven,  a  sacrifice  of  gore  ! 

"  Back,  back,  great  king !  Gilboa's  caves  shall  show 

Some  present  refuge  from  the  unsparing  foe." 

"  Said  I  not  thus  ?"  the  desperate  chief  replied, 

The  winged  arrow  trembling  in  his  side  ; 

"  Said  I  not  thus,  the  godless  should  prevail 

And  Israel  fall,  like  corn  before  the  hail  ? 

Where  are  my  sons?" — "  These  corses  !" — "  Said  I  not — 

A  monarch's  children  like  a  beggar's  rot. 

Away,  away  !  degenerate  Hebrews  fly  ! — 

But  Saul Begone  !  nor  see  a  monarch  die. 

The  dreadful  phantom,  vainly  now  implored, 
Unmann'd  my  spirit  and  unedged  my  sword, 
Else  fled  not  Saul  before  the  haughty  foe, 
Nor  on  his  back  received  the  Gentile  blow. — 
Haste,  slave — strike,  strike  :*  the  victor  shall  not  say 

*  Ch.  xxxi.  v.  4. 
13* 


150  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

The  chief  of  Israel  was  a  living  prey  : 

Strike  the  sharp  weapon  through  my  mangled  breast ; 

One  better  wound  be  added  to  the  rest." 

"  O  fly,  great  chief!  a  happier  day "     "  Away» 

Thou  poor  pale  coward  :  this  is  Saul's  last  day ! 
This  is  the  day — Said  I  not? — this  is  the  hour : 

Saul  not  outlives  his  glory  and  his  power 

Eternity !  how  dark  the  waves  that  roll 
In  booming  discord  on  my  frighted  soul ! 
Eternity !  how  filled  with  wrack  and  gloom ! — 
Creation's  vast  and  never-closing  tomb  ! — 
Billows  that  float  in  awful  shade  and  fire,  , 
Black  lowering  horror,  and  fierce  flashing  ire  ; 
Mystic  and  hideous,  yet  unshunnM  by  me, 
Thy  dismal  desert,  O  Eternity  !" 

He  said :  the  weapon  made  its  furious  way— 
And  night  and  horror  closed  the  fatal  day. 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  151 


BY  NICHOLAS  BIDDLE. 


FOR  the  high  and  holy  duty  of  serving  his  country,  he 
begins  by  deep  and  solitary  studies  of  its  constitution  and 
laws,  and  all  its  great  interests.  These  studies  are  extend 
ed  over  the  whole  circumference  of  knowledge  —  all  the 
depths  and  shoals  of  the  human  passions  are  sounded  to 
acquire  the  mastery  over  them.  The  solid  structure  is 
then  strengthened  and  embellished  by  familiarity  with 
ancient  and  modern  languages  —  with  history,  which  sup 
plies  the  treasures  of  old  experience  —  with  eloquence, 
which  gives  them  attraction  —  and  with  the  whole  of  that 
wide  miscellaneous  literature,  which  spreads  over  them 
all  a  perpetual  freshness  and  variety.  These  acquirements 
are  sometimes  reproached  by  the  ignorant  as  being  pe 
dantry.  They  would  be  pedantic  if  they  intruded  into 
public  affairs  inappropriately,  but  in  subordination  to  the 
settled  habits  of  the  individual,  they  add  grace  to  the 
strength  of  his  general  character,  as  the  foliage  ornaments 
the  fruit  that  ripens  beneath  it.  They  are  again  denounced 
as  weakening  the  force  of  native  talent,  and  contrasted  dis 
paragingly  with  what  are  called  rough  and  strong  minded 
men.  But  roughness  is  no  necessary  attendant  on  strength; 
the  true  steel  is  not  weakened  by  the  highest  polish  — 
just  as  the  scymetar  of  Damascus,  more  flexible  in  the 
hands  of  its  master,  inflicts  a  keener  wound  than  the 
coarsest  blade.  So  far  from  impairing  the  native  strength 


152          -    ,  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

of  the  mind,  at  every  moment  this  knowledge  is  availa 
ble.  In  the  play  of  human  interests  and  passions,  the 
same  causes  ever  influence  the  same  results;  what  has 
been,  will  again  be,  and  there  is  no  contingency  of  affairs 
on  which  the  history  of  the  past  may  not  shed  its  warning 
light  on  the  future.  The  modern  languages  bring  him 
into  immediate  contact  with  the  living  science  and  the 
gifted  minds  of  his  remote  cotemporaries.  All  the  forms 
of  literature,  which  are  but  the  varied  modifications  in 
which  the  human  intellect  develops  itself,  contribute  to 
reveal  to  him  its  structure  and  its  passions;  and  these  en 
dowments  can.  be  displayed  in  a  statesman's  career  only 
by  eloquence — itself  a  master  power,  attained  only  by 
cultivation,  and  never  more  requiring  it  than  now,  when 
its  influence  is  endangered  by  its  abuse.  Our  institutions 
require  and  create  a  multitude  of  public  speakers  and 
writers — but,  without  culture,  their  very  numbers  im 
pede  their  excellence — as  the  wild  richness  of  the  soil 
throws  out  an  unweeded  and  rank  luxuriance.  Accord 
ingly,  in  all  that  we  say  or  write  about  public  affairs,  a 
crude  abundance  is  the  disease  of  our  American  style. 
On  the  commonest  topic  of  business,  a  speech  swells  into 
a  declamation — an  official  statement  grows  to  a  disserta 
tion.  A  discourse  about  any  thing  must  contain  every 
thing.  We  will  take  nothing  for  granted.  We  must 
commence  at  the  very  commencement.  An  ejectment 
for  ten  acres,  reproduces  the  whole  discovery  of  America 
— a  discussion  about  a  tariff*  or  a  turnpike,  summons  from 
their  remotest  caves  the  adverse  blasts  of  windy  rhetoric 
— and  on  those  great  Serbonian  bogs,  known  in  political 
geography  as  constitutional  questions,  our  ambitious  fluen 
cy  often  begins  with  the  general  deluge,  and  ends  with 
its  own.  It  is  thus  that  even  the  good  sense  and  reason 
of  some  become  wearisome,  while  the  undisciplined  fancy 


THE  PHILADELPHIA   BOOK.  153 

of  others  wanders  into  all  the  extravagances  and  the  gau 
dy  phraseology  which  distinguish  our  western  oriental 
ism.  The  result  is,  that  our  public  affairs  are  in  danger  of 
becoming  wholly  unintelligible — concealed  rather  than 
explained,  as  they  often  are,  in  long  harangues  which  few 
who  can  escape  will  hear,  and  in  massive  documents 
which  all  who  see  will  shun.  For  this  idle  waste  of  words 
— at  once  a  political  evil  and  a  social  wrong — the  only 
remedy  is  study.  The  last  degree  of  refinement  is  sim 
plicity;  the  highest  eloquence  is  the  plainest;  the  most 
effective  style  is  the  pure,  severe,  and  vigorous  manner, 
of  which  the  great  masters  are  the  best  teachers. 

But  the  endearing  charm  of  letters  in  a  statesman,  is 
the  calmness  and  dignity  which  they  diffuse  over  his 
whole  thoughts  and  character.  He  feels  that  there  are 
higher  pursuits  than  the  struggles  for  place.  He  knows 
that  he  has  other  enjoyments.  They  assist  his  public 
duties — they  recruit  his  exhausted  powers,  and  they  fill, 
with  a  calm  and  genuine  satisfastion,  those  hours  of  re 
pose  so  irksome  to  the  mere  man  of  politics.  Above  all, 
and  what  is  worth  all,  they  make  him  more  thoroughly 
and  perfectly  independent.  It  is  this  spirit  of  personal 
independence  which  is  the  great  safeguard  of  our  institu 
tions.  It  seems  to  be  the  law  of  our  physical  and  of  our 
moral  nature,  that  every  thing  should  perish  in  its  own  ex 
cesses.  The  peculiar  merit  of  free  institutions  is,  that  they 
embody  and  enforce  the  public  sentiment — the  abuse 
which  has  destroyed  them  is,  that  they  execute  prema 
turely,  the  crude  opinions  of  masses  of  men  without  ade 
quate  reflection,  and  before  the  passions  which  excited 
them  can  subside.  Opinions  now  are  so  easily  accumu 
lated  in  masses,  and  their  action  is  so  immediate,  that 
unless  their  first  impulses  are  resisted,  they  will  not  brook 
even  the  restraints  which,  in  cooler  moments,  they  have 


154  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

imposed  on  themselves,  but  break  over  the  barriers  of 
their  own  laws.  Their  impatience  is  quickened  by  the 
constant  adulation  from  the  competitors  for  their  favour, 
till,  at  last,  men  become  unwilling  to  hazard  offence  by 
speaking  wholesome  truth.  It  is  thus  that  the  caprice 
of  a  single  individual,  some  wild  phantasy,  perhaps,  of 
some  unworthy  person,  easily  corrected,  or,  if  there  were 
need,  easily  subdued  at  first — when  propagated  over  nu 
merous  minds,  not  more  intelligent  than  the  first,  be 
comes,  at  length,  commanding — and  superior  intellects 
are  overawed  by  the  imposing  presence  of  a  wide-spread 
folly,  as  the  noxious  vapor  of  the  lowest  marsh,  may 
poison,  by  contagion,  a  thousand  free  hills.  That  is  our 
first  danger.  The  second  and  far  greater  peril  is,  when 
these  excited  masses  are  wielded  by  temporary  favorites, 
who  lead  them  against  the  constitution  and  the  laws.  For 
both  these  dangers,  the  only  security  for  freedom  is  found 
in  the  personal  independence  of  public  men.  This  inde 
pendence  is  not  a  mere  abundance  of  fortune,  which 
makes  place  unnecessary — for  wealth  is  no  security  for 
personal  uprightness — but  it  is  the  independence  of  mind, 
the  result  of  talents  and  education,  which  makes  the  pos 
sessor  conscious  that  he  relies  on  himself  alone — that  he 
seeks  no  station  by  unworthy  means— will  receive  none 
with  humiliation — will  retain  none  with  dishonor.  They 
take  their  stand  accordingly.  Their  true  position  as  that 
where  they  can  best  defend  the  country  equally  from 
this  inflamed  populace  and  their  unworthy  leaders — on 
the  one  hand,  resisting  this  fatal  weakness — the  fear  of 
losing  popular  favor— -and,  on  the  other,  disdaining  all 
humiliating  compliances  with  men  in  power. 

Of  the  ancient  and  modern  world,  the  best  model  of 
the  union  of  the  man  of  letters  and  the  statesman  was  he, 
with  whose  writings  your  studies  have  made  you  familiar 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  155 

—Cicero.  The  most  diligent  researches,  the  most  various 
acquirements,  prepared  him  for  the  active  career  of  public 
life,  which  he  mingled  with  laborious  studies,  so  as  never, 
for  a  moment,  to  diminish  the  vigor  of  his  public  charac 
ter.  How  often,  and  how  well  he  served  his  country  all 
history  attests.  When  the  arts  and  the  arms  of  Cataline  had 
nearly  destroyed  the  freedom  of  Rome,  it  was  this  great 
man  of  letters  who  threw  himself  into  the  midst  of  that 
band  of  desperate  conspirators,  and  by  his  single  intre 
pidity  and  eloquence  rescued  the  republic. 

When  that  more  noble  and  dangerous  criminal,  Caesar, 
broke  down  the  public  liberty,  after  vainly  striving  to 
resist  the  tide  of  infatuation,  Cicero  retired  to  his  farm, 
where  he  composed  those  deep  philosophical  works  which 
have  been  the  admiration  of  all  succeeding  time.  But 
they  could  not  avert  his  heart  from  his  country — and  on 
that  day — on  that  very  hour,  when  the  dagger  of  Casca 
avenged  the  freedom  of  Rome,  he  was  in  the  Senate, 
and  the  first  words  of  Brutus  on  raising  his  bloody  steel, 
were  to  call  on  Cicero — the  noblest  homage,  this,  which 
patriotism  ever  paid  to  letters. 

Let  it  not  diminish  your  admiration  that  Cicero  .was 
proscribed  and  put  to  death.  They  who  live  for  their 
country  must  be  prepared  to  die  for  it.  For  the  same 
reason,  hatred  to  those  who  enslaved  his  country,  his 
great  predecessor,  Demosthenes,  shared  a  similar  fate. 
But  both  died  in  their  country's  service — and  their  great 
memories  shall  endure  for  ever,  long  after  the  loftiest 
structures  of  the  proudest  sovereigns.  There  were  kings 
in  Egypt  who  piled  up  enormous  monuments  with  the 
vain  hope  of  immortality.  Their  follies  have  survived 
their  history.  No  man  can  tell  who  built  the  pyramids. 
But  the  names  of  these  great  martyrs  of  human  liberty 
have  been  in  all  succeeding  time  the  trumpet  call  to  free- 


156  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

dom.     Each  word  which  they  have  spoken  is  treasured, 
and  has  served  to  rally  nations  against  their  oppressors. 

Trained  by  these  studies  and  animated  by  the  habitual 
contemplation  of  the  examples  of  those  who  have  gone 
before  you,  as  a  true  American  statesman,  you  may  lay 
your  hand  on  your  country's  altar.  From  that  hour — 
swerved  by  no  sinister  purpose,  swayed  by  no  selfish 
motive — your  whole  heart  must  be  devoted  to  her  hap 
piness  and  her  glory.  No  country  could  be  worthier  of 
a  statesman's  care.  On  none  has  nature  lavished  more 
of  the  materials  of  happiness  and  of  greatness — as  fatal  if 
they  are  misdirected,  as  they  must  be  glorious  when 
rightly  used.  On  the  American  statesman,  then,  devolves 
the  solemn  charge  of  sustaining  its  institutions  against 
temporary  excesses,  either  of  the  people  or  their  rulers 
—and  protecting  them  from  their  greatest  foes — which 
will  always  lie  in  their  own  bosom.  You  can  accomplish 
this  only  by  persevering  in  your  own  independence — by 
doing  your  duty  fearlessly  to  the  country.  If  you  fail  to 
please  her,  do  not  the  less  serve  her,  for  she  is  not  the 
less  your  country.  Never  flatter  the  people — leave  that 
to  those  who  mean  to  betray  them.  Remember  that  the 
man  who  gave  the  most  luxurious  entertainments  to  the 
Roman  people,  was  the  same  who  immediately  after  des 
troyed  their  freedom.  That  was  Julius  Caesar.  Remember 
that  the  most  bloody  tyrant  of  our  age  was  the  meanest 
in  his  courtship  to  the  mob,  and  scarcely  ever  spoke 
without  invoking  for  his  atrocities  what  he  called  "  the 
poor  people."  That  man  was  Robespierre.  Never  let 
any  action  of  your  life  be  influenced  by  the  desire  of  ob 
taining  popular  applause  at  the  expense  of  your  own  sin 
cere  and  manly  convictions.  No  favor  from  any  sove 
reign — a  single  individual,  or  thirteen  millions,  can  con 
sole  you  for  the  loss  of  your  own  esteem.  If  they  are 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  157 

offended,  trust  to  their  returning  reason  to  do  you  justice, 
and  should  that  hope  fail,  where  you  cannot  serve  with 
honor,  you  can  retire  with  dignity.  You  did  not  seek 
power — and  you  can  readily  leave  it,  since  you  are  quali 
fied  for  retirement,  and  since  you  carry  into  it  the  proud 
consolation  of  having  done  your  duty. 

But  should  you  ever  be  called  to  act  the  stern,  yet  glo 
rious  part  which  these  patriot  statesmen  performed,  you 
will  not  fail  in  the  requisite  energy.  It  may  be,  that, 
not  as  of  old,  another  robust  barbarian  from  Thrace,  like 
Maximin — not  a  new  gladiator  slave,  like  Spartacus — 
but  some  frontier  Cataline  may  come  up  with  the  insolent 
ambition  to  command  you  and  your  children.  More  dan 
gerous  still,  the  people  may  be  bartered  away  as  other 
sovereigns  have  been,  by  faithless  favorites,  just  as  the 
very  guards  at  Rome  sold  the  empire  at  open  auction  to 
the  highest  bidder,  Julian.  The  same  arts  which  suc 
ceeded  of  old,  may  not  be  unavailing  here — a  conspiracy 
of  profligate  men,  pandering  to  the  passions  of  the  peo 
ple,  may  inflame  them  to  their  ruin — and  the  country, 
betrayed  into  the  hands  of  its  worst  citizens,  may  be  en 
slaved  with  all  the  appearances  of  freedom.  Should  that 
day  come,  remember  never  to  capitulate — never  to  com 
promise — never  to  yield  to  the  country's  enemies.  Re 
member  that  crime  is  not  the  less  guilty — it  is  only  the 
more  dangerous  by  success.  If  you  should  see  the  cause 
betrayed  by  those  who  ought  to  defend  it,  be  you  only 
the  more  faithful.  Never  desert  the  country — never  des 
pond  over  its  fortunes.  Confront  its  betrayers,  as  mad 
men  are  made  to  quail  beneath  the  stern  gaze  of  fearless 
reason.  They  will  denounce  you.  Disregard  their  out 
cries — it  is  only  the  scream  of  the  vultures  whom  you 
scare  from  their  prey.  They  will  seek  to  destroy  you. 
Rejoice  that  your  country's  enemies  are  yours.  You  can 
14 


158  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

never  fall  more  worthily  than  in  defending  her  from  her 
own  degenerate  children.  If  overborne  by  this  tumult, 
and  the  cause  seems  hopeless,  continue  self-sustained  and 
self-possessed.  Retire  to  your  fields,  but  look  beyond 
them.  Nourish  your  spirits  with  meditation  on  the  migh 
ty  dead  who  have  saved  their  country.  From  your  own 
quiet  elevation,  watch  calmly  this  servile  route  as  its 
triumph  sweeps  before  you.  The  avenging  hour  will  at 
last  come.  It  cannot  be  that  our  free  nation  can  long 
endure  the  vulgar  dominion  of  ignorance  and  profligacy. 
You  will  live  to  see  the  laws  re-established;  these  banditti 
will  be  scourged  back  to  their  caverns — the  penitentiary 
will  reclaim  its  fugitives  in  office,  and  the  only  remem 
brance  which  history  will  preserve  of  them,  is  the  energy 
with  which  you  resisted  and  defeated  them. 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  159 


BY  HENRY  D.  BIRD. 

Thine  was  the  death  that  many  meet, 

That  many  deem  the  best; 
To  lay  them  down  at  glory's  feet 

To  their  eternal  rest — 
For  glory's  glittering  toy  to  rave, 
And  find  the  bauble  in  the  grave! 

What  'vails  it  where  we  barter  life? 

Whether  upon  the  plain, 
Amid  the  spirit-stirring  strife, 

Or  on  the  stormy  main? 
On  land  or  sea,  it  is  the  same; 

We  die;  and  what  to  us  is  fame! 

Why  liest  thou  stiff  and  idle  there, 
Thy  hand  upon  thy  sword, 

While  rapine  shouts  upon  the  air 
His  fearful  signal  word? 

Up,  up!  and  join  the  gathering  clan 

Of  human  fiends  that  prey  on  man. 

Up,  and  away!  the  squadron' d  horse 

Approach  in  fierce  array; 
They'll  mar  thy  poor  dishonor'd  corse, 

And  tread  thy  form;  away! 
Madly  o'er  faint  and  dead  they  pour, 
And  hoof  and  fetlock  smoke  with  gore. 


160  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

Thou  heed'st  me  not;  thou  hearest  not 
The  trumpet  echoing  near; 

And  even  the  roaring  cannon-shot 
Flies  soundless  by  thine  ear, 

Thy  leader  shouts — away,  away! 

Ah,  soldier!  thou  canst  not  obey! 

An  hour  ago  thou  wert  all  life, 

With  fiery  soul  and  eye, 
Rushing  amid  the  kindling  strife, 

To  do  thy  best,  and  die — 
And  now  a  gory  mass  of  clay 
Is  stretch'd  upon  the  warrior's  way. 

Why  are  those  trappings  on  thy  form? 

The  harness  could  not  shield 
Thy  bosom  from  the  iron  storm, 

That  hurtled  o'er  the  field. 
Men  fled  the  terrors  of  thy  brow — 
The  vulture  does  not  fear  thee  now! 

A  thousand  like  thyself,  ah  me! 

Are  stretch'd  upon  the  ground; 
While  the  glad  trump  of  victory 

Is  pealing  round  and  round: 
Hark,  how  the  victors  shout  and  cheer? 

It  matters  not — the  dead  are  here! 

Arise!  the  Paean  rings  aloud, 

The  battle  field  is  won; 
Up,  up,  and  join  the  eager  crowd, 

Before  the  booty's  done: 
"What — wilt  not  take  the  meed  of  toil, 
Thy  share  of  glory  and  of  spoil? 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  161 

Silent,  and  grim,  and  sad  to  view, 

Thou  liest  upon  the  plain; 
To  bleach  or  fester  in  the  dew, 

The  sun,  the  winds,  the  rain: 
What  art  thou  now,  poor  luckless  tool? 
A  murderer's  mark,  a  tyrant's  fool. 


14 


162  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 


BY  RICHARD  PENN  SMITH. 


IN  the  year  1812,  shortly  after  the  declaration  of  war 
with  Great  Britain,  I  made  an  excursion,  partly  of  busi 
ness,  partly  of  pleasure,  into  that  beautiful  and  romantic 
section  of  Pennsylvania,  which  lies  along  its  northeast 
ern  boundary.  One  morning  while  pursuing  my  journey, 
I  heard  at  a  distance  the  sound  of  martial  music,  which 
gradually  became  more  distinct  as  I  ascended  the  Blue 
Ridge,  and  seemed  to  proceed  from  a  humble  village,  situ 
ated  in  the  deep  valley  beneath,  on  the  bank  of  the 
Delaware.  Nothing  could  exceed  the  splendour  of  the 
scene  that  lay  below.  The  sun  was  just  rising  ,  his  first 
beams  were  gradually  stealing  through  the  break  or  gap 
in  the  distant  mountains,  which  seems  to  have  been  burst 
open  by  the  force  of  the  torrent  ;  and  as  they  gilded  the 
dark  green  foliage  of  the  wilderness,  presented  a  view 
which  might  well  awaken  the  genius  of  art,  and  the  spe 
culations  of  science,  but  was  far  too  pure  to  be  estimated 
by  those,  whose  taste  had  been  corrupted  by  admiration 
of  the  feeble  skill  of  man. 

There  are  indeed  throughout  the  globe,  various  fea 
tures  which  the  most  plausible  theories  are  scarce  suffi 
cient  to  account  for,  and  among  them  may  truly  be  class 
ed  that  to  which  we  have  alluded,  where  the  Delaware 
has  cut  its  way  through  the  rugged  bosom  of  the  Kitta- 
tinny  mountain.  The  scene  is  indeed  sublime,  and  while 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  163 

raising  the  eye  from  the  surface  of  the  water  to  the  blue 
summit  of  the  ridge,  a  perpendicular  height  of  twelve 
hundred  and  fifty  feet,  the  question  forcibly  occurs,  was 
this  wonderful  work  the  effect  of  an  inward  convulsion 
of  nature,  or  was  it  occasioned  by  the  irresistible  pres 
sure  of  water,  ages  before  the  European  dreamed  of  the 
existence  of  st  western  world  ? 

After  gazing  and  reflecting  for  some  time  on  the  won 
ders  of  nature,  thus  suddenly  spread  before  me,  I  re 
sumed  my  journey.     The  music,  which  still  continued, 
proceeded,  as  I  found,  from  a  band  of  soldiers  drawn  up 
in  the  main  street  of  the  village,  surrounded  by  their 
friends  and  families  who  had  evidently  assembled  for  the 
purpose  of  taking  a  melancholy  farewell.     I  descended 
the  mountain  by  the  circuitous  path,  and  rode  up  to  the 
inn  before  which  the  crowd  had  gathered,  but  they  were 
all  too  busily  engaged  with  their  own  feelings  to  notice 
the  arrival  of  a  stranger.     Wives  were  listening  to  the 
last  injunction  of  their  husbands,  the  widowed  mother  to 
the  voice  of  her  valued  son,  the  prop  of  her  declining 
years,  and  many  a  bashful  maiden  lent  her  ear  to  the 
protestations  of  eternal  affection,    which,   at  that  time, 
sounded  tenfold  sweeter  as  they  flowed  from  the  lips  of 
the  warlike  lover.     The  shrill  fife  was  playing,  the  drum 
beating,  and  amid  the  jargon  of  voices,  the  corporal  was 
heard  swearing  like  a  trooper,  in  order  to  keep  up  the 
dignity  of  his  station.     The  little  bandy-legged  drummer 
beat  with  uncommon  earnestness  ;  it  was  uncalled  for  at 
the  time,  and  I  was  at  a  loss  to  account  for  his  making 
such  a  deafening  noise,  when  I  perceived  a   shrewish 
looking  beldame  at  his  elbow,  whose  shrill  voice  satisfied 
me  that  he  would  find  comparative  tranquillity  in  the  field 
of  battle,  to  being  within  its  appalling  influence.     The 


164  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

fifer,  out  of  compassion,  lent  the  aid  of  his  shrill  music 
to  relieve  his  friend  from  this  last  unpleasant  lecture. 

Removed  from  the  crowd,  I  observed  a  young  man,  an 
officer  of  the  corps,  in  conversation  with  a  young  woman, 
who  did  not  strive  to  conceal  her  sorrow  on  the  occa 
sion.  Health,  beauty,  and  innocence,  were  strongly  de 
picted  in  her  countenance,  and  her  rusti'c  garb  con 
cealed  a  form,  even  thus  decorated,  far  more  attractive 
than  many  who  move,  for  a  season,  the  constellation  of  a 
ball-room,  and  imagine  they  have  attained  the  extent  of 
worldly  ambition.  The  young  man's  face  was  animated, 
yet  in  the  enthusiasm  of  the  moment,  he  could  not  con 
ceal  the  sadness  of  his  heart,  while  gazing  on  the  lovely 
being  standing  in  tears  beside  him  ;  the  order  was  given 
to  march  ;  he  embraced  her,  imprinted  a  fervent  kiss 
upon  her  pale  forehead,  placed  her  in  the  arms  of  an  aged 
woman,  who  stood  hard  by,  and  hurried  to  the  ranks. 
The  soldiers  left  the  village  followed  by  a  troop  of  little 
urchins,  who  were  either  pleased  with  the  parade,  or 
were  desirous  of  prolonging  the  melancholy  moment  of 
separating  from  a  parent  or  brother.  The  women  re 
mained  in  the  street  watching  them  as  they  slowly  as 
cended  the  mountain  path,  until  they  were  out  of  sight, 
and  then  returned  to  their  lonely  cottages  :  one  only 
lingered  on  the  spot  until  the  last  sound  of  the  distant 
drum  was  no  longer  repeated  by  the  echo  of  the  moun 
tains. 

I  inquired  of  the  innkeeper  concerning  the  young  wo 
man  just  mentioned,  who  informed  me  that  her  name 
was  Lucy  Gray,  the  only  child  of  a  poor  widow,  who  in 
former  days  had  been  in  more  prosperous  circumstances: 
that  she  had  been  betrothed  to  Hugh  Cameron,  the 
young  soldier,  from  their  childhood,  and  that  their  nuptials 
were  to  have  been  celebrated  in  a  few  weeks,  but  as  he 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  165 

was  draughted  for  the  frontiers,  prudence  obliged  them 
to  postpone  the  ceremony  until  the  campaign  should  be 
over. 

Mine  host  was  as  loquacious  as  most  village  landlords, 
and  as  he  was  familiar  with  the  life,  birth,  and  parentage 
of  every  individual  in  the  village,  it  was  not  long  before 
I  received  a  full  account  of  the  young  officer,  who,  to 
use  the  narrator's  own  words,  "  had  gained  the  good  will 
of  all  the  gray  heads  and  green  hearts  on  that  side  of  the 
Blue  Mountain." 

Hugh  Cameron  had  been  protected  from  his  infancy 
by  his  grandmother,  who  was  a  native  of  the  Highlands 
of  Scotland,  and  whose  mind  was  strongly  imbued  with 
the  numerous  superstitions  of  the  uneducated  of  her 
country.  He  was  the  child  of  her  only  daughter,  who 
had  fallen  a  victim  to  unlimited  confidence  in  him  she 
loved,  and  finally  expiated  her  offence  by  a  broken  heart. 
Hugh  soon  learned  the  history  of  his  mother's  shame 
from  his  playmates,  who  upon  the  slightest  offence  would 
remind  him  of  it,  in  derision,  for  man  appears  determin 
ed  most  religiously  to  adhere  to  the  law,  as  laid  down  in 
Deuteronomy,  where  it  is  written,  that  the  unfortunate  in 
birth,  "  even  to  his  tenth  generation,  shall  not  enter  into 
the  congregation  of  the  Lord." 

The  taunts  of  his  schoolmates,  preyed  upon  the  mind 
of  the  boy ;  he  avoided  them  and  sought  seclusion. 
What  time  was  allowed  from  study,  was  passed  in  the 
deepest  recesses  of  the  mountain,  or  on  the  giddy  preci 
pice,  where  the  eagle  made  his  eyry.  Often  was  he  seen 
by  the  astonished  villagers,  apparently  hanging  in  mid 
air,  by  some  projecting  rock,  hitherto  untrodden  by 
mortal  foot,  shouting  with  joy  at  the  affrighted  birds  of 
prey,  as  they  wildly  dashed  in  circling  flight  around  his 
head.  They  had  nothing  to  fear  from  the  approach  of 


166  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

the  daring  boy,  for  his  was  not  a  heart,  wantonly  to  in 
flict  a  wound  upon  the  humblest  of  God's  creatures.  His 
feelings  were  acute,  and  his  imagination  vivid.  For  hours 
he  would  listen  to  the  tales  of  his  grandmother,  of  war 
locks,  witchcraft,  omens,  and  prognostics  of  death.  With 
her,  not  a  breeze  agitated  the  woods  or  the  river  ;  not  a 
drop  of  rain  fell,  nor  an  insect  moved,  but  for  a  special 
purpose.  He  never  became  weary  of  listening  to  her, 
nor  she  of  relating,  the  wonderful  legends  with  which 
her  mind  was  stored. 

The  village  schoolmaster  was  also  every  way  calcula 
ted  to  give  a  freshness  of  colouring  to  the  rude  narra 
tives  of  the  old  crone,  and  increase  their  fascination  with 
the  semblance  of  reality.  He  had  lived  long  and  seen 
much  of  the  world  :  a  Hungarian,  a  classical  scholar  and 
fond  of  that  lore  which  too  frequently  destroys  the  world 
ly  hopes,  and  enervates  the  mind  of  the  possessor.  He 
fed  on  thriftless  verse  until  his  mind  sickened  at  the  re 
alities  of  life.  His  reading  had  been  various  and  pro 
found,  but  that  which  was  speculative  and  visionary,  pos 
sessed  more  charms  for  his  mind,  than  that  which  partook 
of  earthly  matter.  He  was  an  accomplished  musician, 
and  many  a  time  at  midnight  was  his  solitary  flute  heard 
in  the  deep  recesses  of  the  mountain,  and  on  the  surface 
of  the  river. 

He  was  an  isolated  man,  and  imagined  no  earthly 
being  possessed  a  feeling  in  unison  with  his  own.  When 
he  discovered  the  wildness  and  delicate  texture  of  his 
pupil's  mind,  they  became  almost  inseparable  compan 
ions.  The  youth  improved  rapidly  under  his  guidance, 
not  only  in  literature  and  music,  but  in  the  facility  of 
creating  theories,  which,  at  the  time  they  expanded  and 
enlarged  his  mind,  involved  it  in  an  ocean  of  diffi 
culty  and  doubt,  without  a  compass  to  guide  it  to  a 
haven, 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  167 

With  years,  the  feelings  of  the  youth  became  more 
sensibly  alive  to  the  charms  of  nature.  For  hours  he 
would  contemplate  the  rolling  river,  and  as  wave  suc 
ceeded  wave, the  Hungarian  would  discover  some  analogy 
to  human  life,  which  served  to  illustrate  his  visionary 
theories.  The  hollow  moan  of  the  forest,  at  midnight, 
which  foretold  the  coming  storm,  was  music  to  their  ears, 
and  those  hours  which  the  wearied  villagers  devoted  to 
repose,  were  passed  by  the  old  man  and  his  pupil  in  ga 
zing  at  the  stars.  The  Hungarian  fancied  he  had  ascer 
tained  the  star  of  his  nativity,  and  for  years,  whenever 
visible,  he  regularly  rose  at  the  hour  of  twelve,  to  note 
its  station  in  the  heavens.  He  had  made  his  calculations 
and  predicted  the  day  of  his  death.  He  communicated 
the  time  to  his  pupil,  who,  though  a  convert  to  his  opin 
ions,  and  fearful  that  the  prediction  would  be  verified, 
treated  it  lightly,  and  endeavoured  to  remove  the  impres 
sion  from  his  mind.  The  attempt  was  fruitless.  The 
night  preceding  his  death,  at  the  hour  of  twelve,  he 
called  at  Hugh  Cameron's  cottage,  awoke  him,  and 
they  proceeded  to  the  grave-yard  together  in  silence, 
for  the  Hungarian's  mind  was  so  engrossed  with  thought, 
that  Hugh  did  not  venture  to  break  the  chain  of  reflec 
tion. 

They  paused  beneath  the  tall  cypress  that  stood  in  the 
eastern  corner  of  the  yard :  the  old  man  examined  the 
position  of  the  star  upon  whose  movements,  he  said,  de 
pended  his  destiny,  and  then  turning  to  his  companion, 
added — 

"  It  is  a  weakness  to  feel  any  concern  about  the  dispo 
sition  of  the  body  when  life  is  extinct,  for,  though  the 
dust,  of  which  this  frail  tenement  is  composed,  be  scat 
tered  to  the  four  corners  of  the  earth,  there  is  that  mag 
netism  inseparable  from  each  particle  which  at  one  day 


168  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

will  cause  re-union ;  yet  it  is  natural  that  the  mind  at 
parting  from  the  body,  should  feel  some  interest  in  its  fu 
ture  destiny,  and  I  have  often  marked  spots  where  I  fan 
cied  the  sleep  of  the  dead  would  be  more  undisturbed 
than  in  others  ;  and  this  is  one  of  them.  I  make  but 
one  request;  when  the  few  sands  which  yet  linger  of 
my  life  are  run,  see  that  my  remains  be  decently  inter 
red  beneath  this  cypress  tree.  This  is  all  I  ask  of  you 
in  this  world." 

Hugh  replied  that  he  hoped  he  would  live  long,  to  com 
mand  many  a  service  of  a  less  melancholy  nature. 

The  old  man  continued  in  a  solemn  tone  ;  "  Do  you 
see  that  star  ;  it  is  already  low  in  the  west,  and  its  rays 
are  fitful  and  feeble.  When  the  first  gray  light  of  the 
morning  shall  have  extinguished  it,  my  light  will  also 
be  extinguished.  I  have  predicted  it  for  years,  and  at 
this  moment  there  are  too  many  omens  concurring  to 
leave  a  doubt  of  the  accuracy  of  my  calculation.  At 
times  the  mind  is  so  delicately  attuned  as  to  shrink  in 
stinctively  from  unseen  approaching  danger,  without  the 
slightest  sound  or  touch  to  communicate  it  to  the  out 
ward  senses,  and  such  is  the  present  state  of  my  feelings. 
My  life  has  been  a  long  one  ;  not  altogether  unprofit- 
ably,  and  I  humbly  trust,  harmlessly  spent.  '  My  bas 
ket  and  my  store'  are  not  quite  empty,  and  to  you  I  be 
queath  the  gleanings  of  my  life.  Among  my  papers 
you  will  find  one  to  this  effect  I  have  not  much  to 
leave,  but  what  little  there  is  will  be  of  consequence  to 
one  whose  mind  is  constituted  like  yours."  He  struck 
his  cane  into  the  earth,  and  added  ;  "  remember  this  spot, 
Hugh  Cameron  ;  here  let  my  head  lie.  Come,  my  last 
request  is  made." 

He  left  his  stick  where  he  had  planted  it,  and  they  re 
turned  in  silence  to  the  village.     When  they  came  in 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  169 

front  of  Hugh's  cottage,  they  parted.  It  was  a  parting 
under  a  full  conviction  of  meeting  no  more  in  this  world. 
Much  time  elapsed  before  Cameron  could  compose  his 
troubled  mind  to  sleep,  and  when  finally  exhausted,  he 
slumbered  in  a  state  of  consciousness.  He  arose  about 
two  hours  after  the  sun,  and  hurried  towards  the  resi 
dence  of  his  friend.  His  heart  felt  like  a  lump  of  lead 
in  his  bosom,  as  he  discovered  at  a  distance  the  shutters 
of  his  chamber  window  bowed.  The  chamber  was  on 
the  ground  floor  of  the  cottage,  and  opened  into  a  little 
flower-garden,  the  cultivation  of  which  was  the  Hunga 
rian's  chief  delight.  He  was  curious  in  flowers,  and  had 
acquired  the  art  of  varying  their  colours  by  the  applica 
tion  of  minerals  to  the  root.  Hugh  crossed  the  garden, 
and  with  trembling  hands,  pulled  open  the  shutters.  He 
stood  for  a  moment  transfixed  with  grief,  then  shrunk 
from  the  sight  that  presented  itself. 

On  a  broad  board  supported  by  chairs,  lay  the  mortal 
remains  of  his  friend  already  clad  in  the  garments  of  the 
grave.  He  silently  closed  the  window,  and  on  entering 
the  house  learnt,  that  as  the  Hungarian  had  not  appeared 
at  his  usual  hour  of  rising,  the  family  had  entered  the 
room,  apprehensive  that  he  was  ill,  and  discovered  him 
lying  in  bed,  his  body  already  stiff  and  cold.  Upon  a 
small  table,  near  the  head  of  the  bed,  a  lamp  was  still 
burning,  though  broad  daylight,  and  his  clenched  hands 
still  held  his  bible,  which  rested  upon  his  bosom  ;  the  book 
still  open  at  the  page  he  was  last  reading.  Every  circum 
stance  proved  that  his  death  was  as  calm  as  the  sleep  of 
the  spotless  infant.  He  was  buried  in  the  place  pointed 
out  the  preceding  night,  and  all  the  villagers,  from  in 
fancy  to  age,  followed  him  in  sorrow  to  the  grave.  On 
examining  his  papers  his  will  was  found,  in  which  he 
15 


170  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

bequeathed  his  little  possessions  exclusively  to  his  pupil, 
Hugh  Cameron. 

This  is  briefly  the  substance  of  the  prolix  narrative  of 
mine  host.  My  horse  being  refreshed,  I  mounted  and 
pursued  my  journey,  reflecting  upon  how  frail  a  thread 
human  happiness  depends.  As  I  passed  along  the  street 
all  was  silent  and  dejected ;  not  even  a  dog  stirred  to 
bark  at  me,  but  as  the  village  gradually  receded  from  my 
view,  other  thoughts  engrossed  my  mind,  and  the  lovely 
Lucy  Gray  and  her  sorrows  were  forgotten. 

Shortly  after  the  peace,  business  obliged  me  to  take  a 
similar  journey.  The  sun  was  about  setting  as  I  found 
myself  upon  the  summit  of  the  Blue  Mountain,  and  the 
welcome  village  in  the  deep  valley,  again  presented  it 
self.  My  jaded  horse  leisurely  descended,  carefully 
kicking  every  stone  out  of  the  way  that  lay  in  his  rugged 
path.  When  half  way  down  the  height,  I  paused  to  rest 
the  weary  animal.  A  young  woman  suddenly  emerged 
from  a  cluster  of  blooming  laurels  and  wild  honeysuckles, 
which  grew  round  the  base  of  a  large  projecting  rock. 
Her  dark  hair  was  luxuriant,  and  bound  with  neatness 
and  simplicity  ;  her  face  lovely  and  bloom  ing,  yet  slightly 
overcast  with  sadness,  and  the  matchless  symmetry  of 
her  small  and  elastic  frame,  was  heightened  by  the  un 
common  neatness  of  her  rustic  apparel.  On  one  arm 
hung  a  basket,  well  stored  with  rich  and  various  moun 
tain  flowers,  while  the  other  was  extended,  to  assist  a 
young  man  to  rise  who  was  seated  at  a  short  distance  from 
the  rock,  and  upon  whose  enfeebled  frame  the  hand  of 
death  pressed  heavily.  He  was  a  cripple,  deprived  of 
his  right  arm,  and  his  manly  forehead  was  difigured  by  a 
wound.  He  rose  with  difficulty,  and  stood  silent,  absorb 
ed  in  thought 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  171 

"  I  fear,"  said  Lucy,  for  it  was  the  widow's  child, 
"  we  have  extended  our  walk  too  far.  The  mountain 
path  was  too  rugged  for  you  yet.  You  are  fatigued,  but 
in  a  few  weeks  you  will  be  strong  enough  to  revisit  the 
haunt  you  loved  so  when  a  boy." 

"No,  Lucy,  no,"  he  replied  in  a  hollow,  tremulous 
voice,  "  I  shall  never  again  clamber  to  the  rugged  brow 
of  yonder  ridge,  upon  which  the  beams  of  the  getting 
sun  are  now  dancing.  It  would  give  a  new  impulse  to 
my  heart  to  be  for  a  moment  there,  and  the  flagging 
stream  of  life  would  flow  more  freely  ;  but  I  shall  never 
again  gaze  upon  the  setting  sun  from  that  loved  spot ; 
never  again  listen  to  the  roar  of  the  torrent  that  dashes 
down  that  precipice." 

They  disappeared  behind  the  rock  and  struck  into  an 
other  path  ;  I  urged  my  horse  forward,  and  as  I  descend 
ed,  the  drowsy  tinkling  of  bells  was  heard,  as  the  sheep 
boy,  whistling,  leisurely  followed  his  charge  to  the  fold. 
The  village  boys  were  driving  the  herds  to  water  ;  some 
were  paddling  the  light  canoe  across  the  river,  while 
others,  more  idle,  were  busied  with  their  childish  sports 
upon  the  lawn.  Several  women  were  at  work  with 
their  wash-tubs  on  the  bank,  and,  as  I  drew  nigh  a  mo 
mentary  cessation  from  labour  ensued.  One  of  them  in 
particular  was  calculated  to  attract  notice.  She  was  tall 
and  meagre ;  her  visage  was  sharp,  swarth,  and  wrinkled, 
and  every  line  of  it  denoted  that  the  family,  into  which 
it  was  the  fate  of  Socrates  to  wed,  had  not  become  ex 
tinct  even  to  the  present  age.  My  eyes  were  turned 
upon  her,  and  I  fancied  I  recognised  her  countenance.  I 
accosted  her,  and  she  no  sooner  gave  loose  to  her  inhar 
monious  tongue,  than  my  doubts  vanished.  It  was  im 
possible  to  forget  the  sound  having  once  heard  it  It 


172  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

was  the  voice  of  the  village  shrew,  the  bandy-legged 
drummer's  wife. 

"  And  are  you  the  stranger,"  she  exclaimed,  drawing 
her  skinny  arms  from  the  suds  in  which  they  were  im 
mersed,  and  placing  them  akimbo  ;  "  Are  you  the  stran 
ger,  who  baited  at  our  village  years  agone,  when  our 
husbands  and  our  sons  were  marching  to  the  wars  in  the 
Canadas  ?" 

"  I  am  the  same." 

"  Well,  my  old  eyes  have  not  failed  me  yet,  in  spite 
of  all  my  sorrow.  That  was  a  woful  day  to  many  of  us, 
and  many  a  woful  day  did  it  bring  after  it."  I  inquired 
after  the  fate  of  her  husband.  "  Good  man,"  she  conti 
nued,  "  he  has  gone  to  a  more  peaceful  world  than  this. 
He  was  a  hard-working  man,  and  well  to  do,  and  never 
wronged  another  of  the  value  of  that  suds,  and  that  is 
more  than  some  can  say  that  ride  in  their  gilt  coaches. 
But  he  has  now  gone  where  honesty  will  turn  to  better 
account,  than  all  the  gold  and  dross  of  this  world.  If  he 
were  but  back  again,  I  should  not  be  slaving  here  like  a 
galley  slave  as  I  am,  to  find  bread  for  his  poor  dear  or 
phan  boy.  Gilbert  !"  she  cried  in  a  shrill  tone,  and  con 
tinued  :  "  but  I  will  train  him  up  in  the  right  path,  and 
he  will  not  depart  from  it.  Gilbert  !"  she  again  cried 
with  increased  energy.  "  He  is  the  comfort  of  my  age, 
the  joy  of  my  widowed  heart.  Gilbert,  you  Gilbert," 
she  shrieked,  ((  which  way  can  the  brat  have  gone  ?" 
She  espied  the  luckless  little  ragged  urchin  hard  by, 
laughing  aloud  and  wrestling  with  a  water  dog,  dripping 
wet  from  the  river.  "  I'll  change  your  note,  you  undu- 
tiful  hound,  take  that,"  she  exclaimed,  at  the  same  time 
suiting  the  action  to  the  word.  The  boy  made  a  hasty 
retreat,  crying,  and  the  dog  ran  after  him,  barking,  and 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  173 

rubbing  his  wet  skin  on  the  green  sward,  in  the  fulness 
of  joy,  which  can  hardly  be  attributable  to  the  lad's  mis 
fortune. 

I  inquired  of  the  virago  how  her  husband,  the  drum- 
mer,  died. 

"  Like  a  soldier  on  the  frontiers.  He  was  shot  with 
a  musket  ball,  and  fell  by  the  side  of  Hugh  Cameron, 
who,  heaven  bless  him,  was  at  the  same  time  maimed, 
and  made  a  cripple  for  life.  See,  yon  he  goes,  leaning 
on  the  arm  of  Lucy  Gray.  Poor  souls,  their  only  joy  is 
to  be  together,  but  that  joy  will  not  last  long.  I  have 
lived  a  goodly  time,  and  have  seen  many,  but  never  a 
pair  like  them.  Their  troth  was  plighted  before  the  wars- 
he  loved  Lucy  more  than  life  from  the  time  he  was  a  boy, 
and  used  to  break  the  hush  of  the  mountains  with  the 
sound  of  his  flute  at  midnight,  with  him  who  now  rests 
under  the  big  cypress  tree.  Yet  when  he  found  himself 
a  cripple,  and  unable  to  support  his  Lucy  by  the  labour 
of  his  hands,  he  sent  a  letter  from  the  hospital  where  he 
was  lying,  many  a  long  mile  from  this,  releasing  Lucy 
from  her  vows,  and  making  her  quite  free  to  marry  an 
other  if  she  fancied  him." 

"  It  was  nobly  done  on  his  part :  what  answer  return 
ed  Lucy  ?" 

"  She  wrote  to  him,  that  as.  Hugh  Cameron  was  no 
longer  able  to  work  for  Lucy  Gray,  she  was  able  and 
willing  to  work  for  Hugh  Cameron.  He  no  sooner  re 
ceived  the  letter  than  he  left  the  hospital,  and  travelled 
homewards,  for  he  was  impatient  to  see  her  that  he  now 
loved  more  than  ever.  He  travelled  far  and  fast,  night 
and  day,  which  brought  on  a  fever,  and  when  he  arri 
ved  at  last,  he  looked  like  the  shadow  of  what  he  was. 
He  lay  on  his  sick  bed  for  weeks  ;  the  fever  was  cured, 
but  it  left  behind  a  disease  which  no  medicine  can  cure." 


174  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

Lucy  and  the  invalid  had  by  this  time  entered  the 
village  ;  I  felt  a  curiosity  to  see  more  of  them,  and  tak 
ing  an  abrupt  leave  of  the  loquacious  widow,  I  rode  up 
to  the  inn,  and  was  cordially  welcomed  by  my  quondam 
host.  I  lost  no  time  in  directing  my  steps  towards  the 
widow  Gray's  cottage.  As  I  approached,  the  unceasing 
hum  of  the  widow's  wheel  denoted  that  she  was  at  her 
station.  I  entered,  and  on  making  myself  known  as  an 
early  acquaintance  of  her  husband,  she  recognised  me, 
though  her  features  had  escaped  my  memory.  The 
room  was  uncommonly  neat.  The  fragrance  of  the  wild 
flowers,  culled  by  Lucy,  was  perceptible.  They  were 
placed  in  water  upon  a  bureau,  in  front  of  a  looking 
glass,  in  a  well  polished  mahogany  frame.  Lucy  and 
the  young  soldier  were  in  the  garden.  We  passed  into 
it  through  the  back  door  of  the  cottage,  shaded  by  an 
arbour,  over  which  the  vines  were  already  gradually 
stealing.  The  lovely  girl  was  at  the  extremity  of  the 
little  garden,  bending  over  a  flower  that  required  her  at 
tention. 

"  Every  evening  it  is  thus,"  said  the  widow,  "  when 
ever  she  can  spare  an  hour  from  her  labour,  she  devotes 
it  to  the  garden,  and  really  the  care  she  takes,  adds  much 
to  the  appearance  of  our  dwelling." 

" Truly,"  I  observed,  "her  labour  has  not  been  idly 
spent." 

"  A  blessing,"  continued  the  widow,  "  appears  to  at 
tend  all  she  does." 

The  invalid  appeared  intent  upon  what  Lucy  was 
doing,  but  the  praise  which  escaped  the  widow's  lips, 
did  not  escape  him.  He  turned  towards  us  and  said — 

"  True,  mother,  even  the  drooping  narcissus  revives 
at  her  touch,  your  aged  heart  grows  glad  in  her  presence, 
and  the  weight  of  years  is  forgotten  j  nay,  even  I  dream 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  175 

of  coming  happiness  when  I  see  her  smile,  but  the  nar 
cissus  will  bloom  only  for  a  few  days  longer,  then  wither 
and  sink  to  the  earth. " 

"  But  the  flower  will  revive  again  in  spring,"  said  Lucy, 
"  more  beautiful  than  at  the  time  it  faded." 

"  All  things  look  glad  in  spring,"  he  continued,  "  the 
notes  of  the  various  birds  are  more  melodious,  the  buds 
burst  forth,  the  mountain  trees  put  on  their  rich  attire, 
the  flowers  of  the  valley  dispense  their  hidden  fragrance, 
the  ice-bound  brook  is  freed  from  its  fetters,  and  every 
breeze  is  fresh  with  fragrance  ;  but  I,  amid  this  general 
revival,  must  fade  and  die  alone.  I  would  the  autumn 
were  already  arrived,  and  the  leaves  were  falling,  for  then 
to  die  would  be  natural,  and  I  should  leave  the  world 
with  less  regret" 

We  returned  to  the  cottage,  and  the  widow  resumed 
her  station  at  the  wheel,  while  Lucy  prepared  the  tea- 
table,  which  was  covered  with  fine  bleached  linen,  which 
the  widow  mentioned  with  an  air  of  pride,  was  the  pro 
duct  of  her  hands.  The  humble  meal  was  soon  ready, 
and  was  eaten  with  thankfulness  and  delight  by  the  cot- 
tager%  a  joy  unknown  to  those  who  have  not  by  their 
own  labour,  first  produced  the  sustenance  of  life. 

The  meal  being  over,  the  widow  returned  to  her  wheel, 
and  recounted  the  occurrences  of  former  days,  until  the 
sadness  of  the  present  was  forgotten  in  the  remembrance 
of  the  past.  The  brow  of  the  invalid  became  more 
cheerful,  and  Lucy's  spirits  resumed  their  natural 
buoyancy  from  the  transient  gleam  of  sunshine  that  lit 
up  the  face  of  her  lover.  She  sang.  Her  voice  was 
sweet,  and  there  was  a  heart-thrilling  wildness  in  it,  sel 
dom  to  be  found  in  those  more  refined  and  cultivated. 
It  was  powerful  and  spirit-stirring.  Hugh  Cameron 
dwelt  upon  each  note  with  intense  interest.  His  fea- 


176  •         THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

tures  became  animated,  and  he  mingled  his  voice  with 
her's.  The  widow  stopped  her  incessant  wheel  and 
lifted  her  head  to  listen.  The  invalid  suddenly  raised 
his  voice,  and  cried,  "  that  note  again,  Lucy,  that  note 
again." 

She  repeated  it  with  so  full  a  tone,  and  so  clearly  that 
the  glasses  in  the  window,  and  on  the  cupboard,  vibrated 
with  the  sound. 

"  Hush  ;  that  is  the  note,  I  know  it  well.  Now  listen." 
He  attempted  to  imitate  the  note,  but  he  failed,  for  his 
voice  was  too  feeble.  He  then  added,  "  JNot  yet,  Lucy, 
not  yet  ;  my  time  is  not  come  yet."  The  cheerfulness 
of  the  poor  girl  was  suddenly  changed  to  sadness  ;  she 
ceased  to  sing  ;  the  widow's  countenance  fell,  and  she 
resumed  her  labour  in  silence. 

The  evening  was  now  considerably  advanced,  and  I 
arose  to  take  my  departure.  The  invalid  accompanied 
me  towards  the  inn.  I  expressed  my  curiosity  to  know 
what  he  meant  by  his  observation,  when  he  failed  to  imi 
tate  the  note. 

"  That,"  said  he,  "  was  the  note  to  which  the  heaven 
ly  spheres  were  attuned,  when  concord  prevailed  through 
out  creation  ;  when  the  mighty  plan  was  first  set  in  mo 
tion,  and  God  pronounced  all  good." 

1  looked  at  him  with  astonishment.  He  continued,  "  I 
have  heard  that  note  at  midnight,  proceed  from  the  voice 
of  my  dog,  as  he  howled  beneath  my  chamber  window 
at  the  moon.  It  was  ominous.  I  have  heard  it  in  the 
voice  of  the  screech-owl,  while  perched  on  the  large  cy 
press  tree  in  the  church-yard.  I  have  heard  it  in  the 
echoes  of  the  mountains  when  I  have  shouted  ;  in  the 
howling  of  the  tempest,  in  the  murmuring  of  the  waters, 
and  the  rustling  of  the  trees  ;  for  every  thing,  both  ani 
mate  and  inanimate,  retains  that  sound,  to  which  univer- 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  177 

sal  harmony  will  again  be  attuned  by  the  master-hand. 
And  when  that  sound  proceeds  from  this  voice,  I  shall 
cease  to  think  of  earthly  matters.  I  perceive  you  doubt 
the  truth  of  my  theory.  If  you  suspend  a  piece  of  metal 
or  glass  by  a  thread,  and  strike  the  note  which  lies  dor 
mant  therein,  upon  a  musical  instrument,  you  will  draw 
it  forth ;  the  substance  will  respond  ;  and  when  the  hea 
venly  harps  are  attuned,  and  their  notes  are  permitted 
to  extend  to.  the  numberless  spheres,  all  created  things, 
both  animate  and  inanimate,  will  join  in  the  concord  ;  the 
discordant  particles  will  be  reconciled  and  all  be  harmony 
again.  All  things  partake  of  heaven.  Even  the  daisy 
of  the  valley  and  the  wild  flowers  of  the  mountain,  re 
tain  and  diffuse  a  portion  of  the  aromatic  atmosphere, 
which  prevails  in  purer  regions  than  this.  As  we  ap 
proach  death,  the  sense  of  smelling  becomes  more  acute 
and  delicate  ;  so  much  so,  that  I  can  already  discover  in 
the  flowers  of  the  season,  that  fragrance  which  belongs 
to  this  world,  and  that  which  is  ethereal.  There  are 
numberless  omens  in  nature,  which  warn  the  wise  man 
of  approaching  change,  and  they  are  not  to  be  idly  slight 
ed."  With  these  remarks  we  arrived  at  the  inn  ;  he 
pressed  my  hand  at  parting,  and  slowly  retraced  his  steps 
to  the  widow's  cottage. 

I  arose  early  the  succeeding  morning,  and  continued 
my  journey  towards  the  border  line  of  New  York.  I 
was  absent  about  two  weeks  from  the  village,  and  it  was  a 
calm  evening  as  I  again  approached  it,  through  the  valley 
formed  by  the  Delaware.  Before  the  village  appeared, 
I  heard  the  solemn  tolling  of  a  church  bell,  which  grew 
louder  and  fainter,  as  the  breeze  that  swept  up  the  valley 
rose  and  died  away.  Every  hill  responded  to  the  knell. 
I  quickened  my  pace,  and  as  I  drew  nigh  to  the  village, 
it  appeared  quite  deserted.  I  rode  up  tg  the  tavern,  but 


ITS  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK, 

my  attentive  host  did  not  make  his  appearance.  I  re 
mained  seated  on  my  horse,  with  my  face  towards  the 
Blue  Ridge.  The  winding  road  which  led  across  the 
mountain,  though  nearly  concealed  by  the  towering  trees, 
was  at  intervals  to  be  seen,  perfectly  bare,  from  the  vil 
lage.  A  long  retinue  appeared  crossing  one  of  these  in 
terstices  ;  it  moved  slowly  along,  and  was  lost  in  the 
shades  of  the  forest.  When  the  last  had  disappeared  I 
alighted,  and  discovered  at  a  short  distance  a  lad  with  his 
eyes  fixed  intently  upon  the  spot,  over  which  the  mourn 
ful  train  had  passed.  It  was  little  Gilbert,  the  drummer's 
child.  I  inquired  the  reason  of  the  village  being  desert 
ed,  and  he  sobbed,  "  Hugh  Cameron  is  dead,  and  they  are 
now  burying  him  where  he  wished  to  be  buried."  The 
boy,  still  weeping,  led  the  way  to  the  stable,  and  supplied 
my  horse  with  food. 

What  are  the  promises  of  this  world  !  There  was  a 
time  when  fancy  whispered  to  Hugh  Cameron,  the  cease 
less  hum  of  the  widow's  wheel  would  be  silenced  ;  her 
chair  would  occupy  the  most  conspicuous  place  around  his 
fire-side,  and  clambering  on  her  knees  would  be  seen,  a 
little  image  of  his  lovely  Lucy.  The  dream  was  a  joyous 
one,  and  life  is  but  a  dream.  He  whose  fancy  can  paint 
the  hopes  of  to-morrow  in  the  most  vivid  colours,  at 
tains  the  summit  of  all  earthly  bliss  ;  for  there  is  much, 
very  much  in  anticipation,  but  little,  very  little  in  frui 
tion. 

In  the  evening  I  went  to  condole  with  the  mourners. 
Lucy  had  already  retired,  for  hers  was  a  sorrow  to  ob 
trude  upon  which,  would  add  to  its  poignancy. 
-  "  The  day  you  left  us,"  said  the  widow,  "  the  depart 
ed  crossed  the  river  with  Lucy  and  little  Gilbert.  They 
strolled  up  the  cypress  hollow  until  they  arrived  at  his 
favourite  retreat,  where  the  torrent  dashes  impetuously 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  179 

down  the  side  of  the  mountain,  and  the  surrounding  pre 
cipice  sends  back  numberless  echoes.  He  seated  him 
self,  and  listened  intently  to  the  roar  of  the  waters.  Not 
a  sound  escaped  him,  and  every  note  was  tried  by  his  ear. 
He  stooped  by  the  stream  where  the  water  gurgled  over 
its  pebbly  bed,  and  discovered  notes  imperceptible  to  any 
ear  less  acute  than  his  own.  A  sudden  gust  of  wind  agi 
tated  the  tall  pines  ;  he  stood  erect,  paused  and  pointing 
to  the  bending  tops  of  the  trees,  exclaimed,  « it  is  there 
too,  Lucy,  even  in  that  hollow  moan  of  the  monarch  of 
the  forest  I  detect  it.'  He  shouted,  and  the  valley  rung 
with  echo ;  he  repeated  it ;  listened  to  every  sound,  and 
his  face  became  animated  as  he  caught  the  faint  return 
made  by  the  most  distant  hill.  His  dog  raised  his  ears 
and  barked,  e  it  is  there  too,  Lucy,'  he  exclaimed,  *  even 
the  voice  of  poor  Carlo  is  full  of  melody,  and  your  voice, 
Lucy,  even  when  you  first  told  me  that  you  loved, 
sounded  not  so  musically,  so  heavenly  sweet.'  He  di 
rected  Gilbert  to  gather  for  him,  the  mountain  honey 
suckle,  the  cypress  branches,  the  laurel,  and  such  flow 
ers  and  blossoms  as  were  putting  forth.  The«boy  soon 
came  with  his  arms  full,  and  laid  them  at  the  feet  of 
the  invalid.  '  My  sense  of  smelling,'  he  said, '  was 
never  so  acute.  The  fragrance  arising  from  these  branch 
es  almost  overpowers  me.  Yet  I  enjoy  it,  and  although 
widely  different  in  their  odours,  I  can  perceive  a  portion 
of  the  same  subduing  fragrance  proceeding  from  each. 
Their  colours  are  more  vivid,  sounds  are  more  distinct, 
and  my  touch  more  sensible  than  formerly.  These 
changes  tell  me  that  I  shall  never  visit  this  valley  again.' 
He  rose  from  the  rock  upon  which  he  was  seated,  took 
Lucy  by  the  arm,  and  proceeded  towards  the  village  in 
silence.  Carlo  walked  closely,  and  dejectedly  by  his 
master's  side,  and  even  the  reckless  Gilbert  did  not  ven- 


180  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

ture  to  break  the  silence,  until  he  had  safely  paddled 
them  across  the  river,  and  was  left  alone  to  secure  the 
canoe. 

"From  that  day,"  continued  the  widow,  "he  grew 
worse,  and  it  was  evident  to  all,  that  the  dear  boy  would 
not  long  be  with  us.     The  evening  preceding  his  death, 
he  was  lying  on  the  bed,  and  Lucy  afc  myself  were 
taking  our  solitary  meal  with  little  appetite,  for  he  who 
dispensed  joy  around  our  board,  was  unable  to  take  his 
wonted  place.     He  turned  in  his  bed,  and  said  in  a  voice 
scarcely  above  his  breath, '  mother,  what  time  does  the 
moon  go  down  ?'  I  told  him  the  hour,  and  inquired  why 
he  asked.     <  Nothing/  he  added,  <  only  this,  mother,  say 
all  you  have  to  say  to  me,  before  the  moon  goes  down.' 
His  voice  was  scarcely  articulate.     Lucy  burst  into  tears, 
and  removed  her  chair  to  the  head  of  his  bed.     He  per 
ceived  her  grief,  and  pressing  her  hand  to  his  feverish 
lips,  said,  e  do  not  weep,  Lucy,  indeed  I  have  more  cause 
to  grieve  than  you,  though  my  heart  feels  little  of  sor- 
sow  at  present.'     She  asked  him  his  cause  of  grief.     '  It 
is  this,  Lucy,  that  I  cannot  live  to  repay  your  matchless 
love,  and  unwearied  care  of  me.'     The  poor  girl's  tears 
flowed  afresh,  and  her  heart  sobbed  as  if  it  would  break. 
The  evening  was  spent  in  reading  such  passages  of  the 
scriptures  to  him  as  he  pointed  out.     His  mind  continued 
firm  and  clear.     About  midnight  he  desired  that  the  case 
ment  of  the  window  might  be  thrown  open.     It  opened 
upon  a  full  view  of  the  river.     The  night  was  sultry, 
and  almost  as  bright  as  day.     An  owl  was  hooting  from 
the  grave-yard,  and  the  whip-poor-will  was  flying  low  and 
screaming.     Poor  Carlo  howled  sorrowfully.  The  sounds 
did  not  escape  the  notice  of  the  dying  man.     Two  or 
three  canoes  were  in  the  middle  of  the  river,  with  a 
bright  blazing  fire  kindled  in  the  stern  of  each.     He  said 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  181 

in  a  low  voice,  <  the  villagers  are  preparing  to  spear  the 
salmon  trout,  then  the  moon  must  be  nearly  down.'  His 
bed  lay  beside  the  window,  and  he  desired  to  be  removed 
to  the  extremity,  that  he  might  look  out  upon  the  sky. 
He  did  so.  His  face  became  animated,  and  as  we  re 
placed  him  in  his  former  position,  he  said,  <  the  works 
of  God  never  before  appeared  to  me  so  exquisitely  beau 
tiful/  and  yet  his  whole  life  had  been  passed  in  admiring 
the  works  of  God.  He  whispered  to  me,  that  it  was  time 
for  us  to  take  our  last  farewell.  My  heart  in  the  course 
of  a  long  life,  met  only  once  with  so  trying  a  moment  as 
that  of  parting  with  the  boy ;  but  my  Lucy — my  poor 
Lucy ;  I  thought  her  heart  would  break  outright.  He  then 
desired  the  window  to  be  closed;  the  light  to  be  removed 
into  the  next  room,  and  not  to  be  disturbed.  At  a  short 
distance,  we  listened  to  the  rattling  in  his  throat,  for 
about  an  hour,  when  it  suddenly  ceased.  Lucy  imagined 
he  slept,  and  softly  approached  the  bed.  I  put  my  hand 
under  the  bed  cover,  and  felt  his  feet.  They  were  stone 
cold.  Animal  heat  had  forsaken  his  extremities,  and  the 
chills  of  death  were  fast  invading  his  heart.  I  induced 
my  child  to  retire  to  her  chamber,  under  the  belief  that 
he  slept,  and  she  did  not  learn  his  fate  until  she  arose 
in  the  morning."  Thus  ended  the  widow's  simple  nar 
rative. 

Poor  Lucy  Gray  !  No  being  is  more  deserving  of  com 
miseration,  than  an  amiable  female  brooding  over  the 
sorrows  of  hopeless  love.  If  her  afflictions  are  occasion 
ed  by  the  treachery  of  man,  the  bitterness  of  thought 
poisons  the  very  sources  of  life,  and  works  a  sure  and 
rapid  decay.  Even  a  deviation  from  the  path  of  recti 
tude,  may  be  philosophised  into  a  virtue,  when  occa 
sioned  by  one  beloved,  but  it  will  rise  up  in  judgment, 
when  passion  has  lost  its  influence,  and  the  fatal  convic- 
16 


182  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

tion  flashes  upon  the  mind,  that  the  object  was  unworthy 
of  the  sacrifice.  But  she  who  has  watched  by  the  death 
bed  of  him  she  doated  on,  and  by  her  angel-presence, drawn 
his  thoughts  to  heaven,  and  taught  him  resignation ;  who 
kissed  his  soul  when  passing  from  his  lips,  and  watched 
the  glazed  eye  that  even  in  death  expressed  his  tender 
ness,  until  she  fancied  that  he  lingered  still,  and  paused 
to  hear  him  breathing — such  a  one  may  mingle  in  society, 
and  pass  along  unnoticed  with  the  rest  of  the  crowd;  she 
may  join  the  sportive  dance  and  seem  to  partake  of  its 
merriment  ;  the  wound  may  apparently  be  healed,  and 
the  smile  of  cheerfulness  may  enlighten  her  countenance; 
but  still  her  midnight  thoughts  are  working  in  the  grave, 
and  straining  near  to  madness  to  picture  the  being  that 
is  mouldering  there.  She  fades,  without  being  con 
scious  herself  of  gradual  decay,  and  like  the  tulip,  be 
comes  more  lovely,  in  consequence  of  disease  engender 
ed  at  the  root.  Such  has  been  the  fate  of  myriads  of  the 
fairest  and  the  best  of  creation,  and  such  was  the  destiny 
of  Lucy  Gray. 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  183 


[From  the  Prophet  of  St.  Paul's.] 

BY  D.  P    BROWN. 

SHE  bade  me  leave  her — and  in  future  deem  her 
But  as  a  friend. — So  should  she  think  of  me, 
As  if  the  "  charter'd  libertine,"  the  mind 
Could  be  subdued  and  taught  forgetfulness, 
While  each  repulsive  lesson  would  revive 
Love's  dear  remembrance  and  confirm  it  more. 
'T  is  all  in  vain — the  heart  can  never  learn 
To  throb  by  rule  or  shun  what  it  adores. 
Friendship  may  swell  to  love  and  fill  the  $oul, 
But  love  ne'er  shrinks  to  friendship,  till  it  dies. 
Extremes  beget  extremes,  and  sometimes  hate 
Usurps  the  throne  of  tenderness  and  joy, 
And  riots  in  their  ruin. — But  true  love 
Shudders  at  diminution  as  at  death. 
Nay,  it  is  death — the  glowing  heart  is  cold, 
Is  cheerless,  all  its  charms  are  lost, 
And  from  its  former  height  it  sinks,  at  once, 
To  the  low  level  of  instinctive  brutes. 
Hearts  that  have  ever  loved,  as  we  should  love, 
Will  stoop  to  no  abatement — no  restraint 
No  change — no  barter — but  a  soul  for  soul ! 
Why  cease  to  love — or  cease  to  be  beloved  ? 
The  Great  Creator  taught  the  breast  to  glow 
With  generous  emotion,  and  to  cling, 
Close  as  to  life,  to  sympathetic  arms. 


184  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

What  is  the  world  without  it,  what  the  glare 

Of  pride  and  pomp — of  wealth  and  pageantry  ? 

They  cannot  buy,  vain-glorious  as  they  are, 

The  least  emotion  that  I  feel  for  thee. 

Who  is  the  richer  then  ?     The  wretch  that  hugs 

His  golden  store  and  nightly  gloats  upon  't, 

Or  the  warm  spirit  that  shakes  off  its  chains 

— This  clod  of  earth — and  limitless,  and  pure, 

As  Heaven's  own  ray,  sheds  light  and  transport  round  ? 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  185 


BY  J.  W.  WILLIAMS. 


IT  is  doubtless  the  fate  of  all  countries  to  be  misrepre 
sented.  The  honest  credulity  of  the  old  travellers,  igno 
rant  of  science,  led  them  into  a  thousand  exaggerations 
concerning  the  physical  characteristics  of  distant  nations, 
by  which  a  child  of  our  times  would  scarcely  be  deceived 
for  a  moment.  They  saw,  wondered,  believed,  (for  be 
lief,  in  rude  times,  is  the  child  of  wonder,)  and  narrated. 
Marco  Polo,  Sir  John  Mandeville,  and  others  of  that  ca 
tegory,  ran  no  danger  of  being  dubbed,  like  poor  Lucian, 
great  scoffers  at  religion,  because,  like  him,  they  could 
not  see  the  hole  in  Syria,  through  which  Deucalion's 
deluge  retired  into  the  earth,  in  all  its  original  propor 
tions.  Their  powers  of  vision  were  unlimited.  But  they 
were  more  prone  to  narrate  than  to  enquire,  and  it  is  as 
tonishing  what  an  amount  of  very  conscientious  absurdi 
ty  may  in  that  manner  be  produced.  The  man  who  mere 
ly  glances  at  the  landscape  as  he  skims  over  the  roads  or 
sails  along  the  rivers  of  a  country,  ought  to  beware  how 
he  reasons  about  soil  and  productions.  He  would  proba 
bly  very  much  mislead  a  settler.  Yet  is  this  very  travel 
ler  the  most  dogmatical  and  opinionated  person  in  the 
universe.  He  trusts  exactly  those  impressions  which,  in 
all  the  ordinary  affairs  of  life,  are  scrutinised  with  jea 
lousy,  and  seldom  acted  upon  without  revision,  by  men 
of  shrewdness  and  experience.  They  form  his  premises 

16* 


186  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

— false  in  fact,  or  so  imperfectly  apprehended  as  scarce 
ly  to  exhibit  one  quality  of  truth;  his  results  must  of 
course  be  essentially  false  in  doctrine.  If  he  ever  dis 
trusts  himself  he  is  soon  over-convinced  by  his  own  vehe- 
mency  of  assertion,  as  great  liars  are,  by  dint  of  repetition, 
compurgators  to  their  own  consciences.  Such  men,  fresh 
from  London  and  De  Lolme,  study  no  strange  constitu 
tions.  If  the  institutions  of  a  foreign  country  diverge 
from  those  of  their  own,  by  so  much  they  set  them  down 
inferior.  They  pull  out  their  guage  and  mark  the  differ 
ence.  They  carry  the  statutory  standard  in  their  pocket, 
and,  like  the  inspector  of  weights  and  measures,  will  not 
hear  an  argument  upon  its  correctness.  It  has  the  Tower 
stamp  upon  it,  and  that  is  enough  for  them. 

America  has  had  her  share,  and  more  than  her  share, 
of  such  supercilious  visitants.  Simple  and  unsuspecting 
as  youth  always  is,  in  nations  as  well  as  in  individuals, 
somewhat  elated  too,  perchance,  and  vain  with  her  recent 
acquisitions  of  the  emblems  ol  empire,  with  all  the  vir 
tues  and  many  of  the  weaknesses  of  a  young  heir  just 
come  to  his  estate,  she  received  and  welcomed  them  with 
open-hearted  confidence  and  affection.  She  looked  not 
for  a  spy  upon  the  sanctity  of  her  household  gods  in  the 
stranger  that  sat  within  her  gates.  She  scarce  supposed 
that  the  hand  of  a  clumsy  servant,  like  the  claws  of  the 
harpies,  could  utterly  mar  and  defile  the  feast  which 
honest  hospitality  had  provided.  She  lacked,  as  she  well 
knew,  the  diadem  and  the  mitre,  the  sumptuousness  of 
crown  and  crosier,  and  the  dim  aisle  of  the  lofty  cathe 
dral.  But  she  had  patriotic  hearts,  (one  above  all  whose 
very  ashes  are  holy,) — a  history  which,  though  brief,  was 
not  altogether  ignoble,  since  it  comprised  the  annals  of 
self-denying  virtue  and  of  that  courage  which  knew  how 
to  vanquish  the  intensity  of  human  passion  by  the  lofti- 


THE  PHILADELPHIA   BOOK.  187 

ness  of  the  human  will.  She  boasted  not  of  her  faith, 
since  her  faith  forbade  it;  but  she  sprang  from  the  loins 
of  pilgrims,  whose  graves  are  still  green  in  the  land,  and 
for  whose  memories  she  brings  an  annual  tribute  of 
thanksgiving.  Contented  with  her  homely  institutions, 
she  determined  to  preserve  them,  because  they  were  the 
firstlings  of  her  heart,  and  endeared  to  her  by  the  recol 
lection  of  anxiety  and  danger.  She  valued  them,  more 
over,  as  much  in  the  light  of  reason  as  from  the  instinct 
of  affection.  They  were,  in  her  eyes,  indispensable  for 
the  preservation  of  those  principles  on  whose  truth  she 
had  gaged  her  all.  They  were  the  leaden  casket  which 
concealed  her  jewel — the  shrine  which  contained  her 
god. 

These  were  the  peculiar  possessions  which  a  young  na 
tion  had,  and  still  has,  to  offer  to  the  consideration  of  a 
stranger,  whose  desire  to  study  for  himself  the  polity  of 
a  distant  country  may  lead  him  hither.  In  our  own  view, 
they  offer  something  not  altogether  contemptible  to  a  li 
beral  and  investigating  spirit,  coupled,  though  they  may 
be,  with  little  of  the  physical  grandeur  which  feudality 
and  superstition  have  borrowed  from  art  to  deck  the 
bosom  of  Europe — little  of  the  circumstance  which 
royalty  loves  to  dispense,  and  which  loyalty  is  prone 
and  proud  to  boast  of — little  of  the  grace  and  elegance 
which  are  the  best  offspring  of  privilege  and  wealth.  With 
a  confidence,  sometimes,  no  doubt,  almost  arrogant,  we 
overpraised  (we  could  not  over-value)  our  own  institu 
tions.  We  could  not  altogether  appreciate  our  own  de 
fects.  The  tower  which  we  aspired  to  build  had  its  base 
on  a  site  so  lofty  that  its  proportions  were  partially  con 
cealed — its  head  was  already  among  the  clouds — caput 
inter  nubila  condit.  We  had  no  eminence  from  which 
to  overlook  it.  Yet  might  the  grandeur  of  the  design 


188  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

and  the  boldness  of  the  execution  have  a  little  tempered 
the  ridicule  of  critics  whose  taste  had  been  formed  on 
different  models.  They  should  not  have  forgotten  that 
simplicity  is  the  main  element  of  beauty  as  well  as  of 
strength,  and  that  the  ornaments  with  which  modern  so 
ciety  is  overlaid  are  not  coeval  with  its  structure,  but 
superinduced  as  time  or  occasion  produced  or  exhibited 
defects.  When  a  nation  is  to  be  created  and  the  fate  of 
a  long  posterity  to  be  settled,  men  breathe  more  freely 
after  they  have  fixed  its  corner-stone  upon  some  grand 
and  comprehensive  principle — to  do  this  is  no  child's 
play  at  card-houses,  as  some  of  us  have  seen,  and  our 
forefathers  have  told  us — it  is  the  work  of  giants. 

With  us  that  principle  was  sought  in  the  sovereignty 
of  the  people,  as  the  source  of  power — in  the  empire  of 
enlightened  thought,  expressed  and  recorded,  as  opposed 
to  the  fluctuating  rule  of  force  or  prerogative,  and  in  the 
dominion  of  laws  emanating  from  the  consent  of  the  go 
verned.  Its  enforcement  and  sanction  are  found  in  no 
romantic  abstraction — neither  in  Plato,  nor  Harrington, 
nor  Sidney — in  no  real  example  of  ancient  or  modern 
democracy  (so  miscalled);  not  in  the  volatile  flexibility 
of  Athens;  nor  in  the  political  stoicism  of  Rome,  great 
only  in  the  poor  security  of  human  virtue;  nor  in  the 
stern  rule  of  the  laws  of  hate  and  fear  and  malignant  jea 
lousy  which  distinguished  the  Adriatic  commonwealth, 
unnaturally  strong  in  the  still  poorer  security  of  human 
infirmity;  nor  yet  in  the  turbulent  liberty  of  the  modern 
Free  Towns — free  only  in  their  power  to  fight  for  the 
choice  of  a  master,  to  part  a  livery,  or  espouse  a  faction, 
on  scarcely  more  intelligible  differences  than  the  green 
or  blue  symbols  of  the  champions  and  charioteers  of  the 
Byzantine  circus;  not  in  any  nor  in  all  these,  nor  in  the 
polity  of  other  cognate  societies,  but  in  the  ethics  of  ex- 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  189 

perience,  and  the  lessons  of  history,  which  teach  that  to 
reconcile  the  interest  and  the  duty  of  men,  to  make  the 
passions  subservient  to  the  reason,  to  reduce  the  evil 
principle  to  a  subordinate  instead  of  an  antagonist  power 
to  the  good — co-working  instead  of  counterworking — is 
to  solve  the  great  problem  in  the  philosophy  of  politics, 
and  to  establish  a  rule  of  dominion  whose  -duration  can 
only  cease  with  the  structure  of  our  humanity. 

It  was,  after  all  a  great  attempt,  to  which  some  defer 
ence  and  toleration  were  due — some  research  to  learn  its 
principles — some  patience  to  await  its  progress.  That 
petty  wall  over  which  Remus  leaped  in  wanton  insolence, 
grew  in  time  to  be  a  lofty  rampart,  under  whose  arches 
kings  marched  in  sad  procession.  Had  the  gibe,  how 
ever,  passed  unpunished,  the  very  hands  that  helped  to 
raise  it  might  have  leveled  it  in  despair.  This  is  the 
reason  we  defend  our  institutions.  We  will  not  have 
them  depreciated  in  our  own  eyes.  The  sensitiveness 
at  which  Europeans  affect  to  wonder,  is  not  the  result  of 
their  disdain,  but  of  our  own  self-respect.  When  they 
record  the  homeliness  of  our  manners,  and  ridicule  our 
primitive  and  straitened  homes — when,  in  a  country  just 
redeemed  from  the  wilderness,  they  are  disgusted  at  our 
rude  fare  and  sordid  pursuits  affecting  to  find  in  the  ab 
sence  of  old  association  a  fruitful  source  of  disorder  and 
disloyalty;  and  when,  speaking  in  authoritative  language, 
they  promulgate,  in  our  own  tongue,  disparaging  senti 
ments  concerning  our  intellectual  and  religious  condition, 
want  of  sensibility  would-  indicate  a  fatal  distrust  of  our 
selves  and  of  the  wisdom  of  our  ancestors.  If  (as  they 
would  intimate),  for  the  sake  of  political  institutions,  all 
the  social  virtues  and  enjoyments — all  the  flower  and 
perfume  of  life — all  the  dignity  and  ornament  of  public 
function — are  to  be  destroyed:  if  to  preserve  the  code 


190  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

of  Lycurgus  we  must,  like  the  Spartans,  sup  black  broth, 
send  our  boys  to  the  revels  of  our  slaves,  or  expose  our 
virgins  in  promiscuous  dances,  better  give  over  self-go 
vernment  than  to  buy  it  so  dearly.  We  protest  still,  as 
in  America  we  always  have  protested,  against  the  con 
version  of  circumstances  into  consequences — against  me 
tamorphosing  the  incidents  of  the  social  relation  into  the 
results  of  a  political  system.  We  insist  that  ignorance, 
however  ingeniously  it  may  "  assume  facts  in  order  to 
have  the  pleasure  of  censuring  faults,"  shall  be  brought 
to  answer,  and  stand  exposed  in  all  the  plenitude  and 
magnitude  of  its  misrepresentations — that  disappointed 
avarice,  though  it  may  redeem  its  unthrift  at  our  cost,  shall 
not  belie  the  wisdom  and  the  honour  which  it  cannot 
comprehend,  without  being  brought  out,  shorn  and  bound, 
to  pay  the  penalty;  and  that  the  smooth  and  polished 
man  of  mark,  who  slides  into  our  families  to  sell  us  to 
his  bookseller,  shall  not  be  sheltered  by  a  sneer,  because 
forsooth  "he  did  but  jest — poison  in  jest"  Sensitive  we 
certainly  are;  the  lion  may  be  roused  by  a  gadfly  or  a 
gnat,  whose  torture,  while  it  stings  him  into  madness  de 
tracts  not  from  the  nobleness  of  his  nature,  nor  reduces 
him  to  a  level  with  the  insect  that  molests  him.  Heaven 
forbid  that  we  should  ever  become  so  passively  lethargic 
as  not  to  be  roused  by  a  sense  of  violated  confidence 
and  unjust  aspersion!  The  judgment  in  that  cause  shall 
never  go  against  us  by  default. 

If  we  are  not  mistaken,  however,  the  day  for  small 
tourists  has  gone  by.  Their  topics  were  so  limited,  that 
repetition  has  made  them  nauseous.  They  afforded  but 
a  paltry  variety  of  slander;  and  of  late  they  have  been 
eked  out  by  some  political  lucubrations  so  puerile  and 
absurd,  that  the  medicine  cannot  be  swallowed  even  with 
the  aid  of  the  confection.  There  are  many  intelligent 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  191 

persons  in  Europe,  whose  tendency  is  to  examine  for 
themselves  a  little  more  deeply  than  a  flippant  satirist 
can  enable  them  to  do,  the  spring  and  principle  of  insti 
tutions  under  which  numerous  communities  live  in  har 
mony  and  prosperity,  self-governed  and  self-balanced, 
notwithstanding  the  existence  of  modes  of  thought  and 
theories  of  association  unknown  to  older  states.  The 
progress  of  enquiry  has  reached  a  point  from  which  it 
cannot  retrograde.  The  science  of  politics  is  no  longer 
a  monopoly.  The  divinity  that  "  doth  hedge  a  king" 
has  forsaken  his  tripod.  Ordinances  have  ceased  to  be 
oracles.  The  fundamental  law  that  Louis  XVIII  gave, 
Louis  Philippe  has  accepted.  What  was  once  begged 
is  now  claimed.  Parchment  and  prescription  are  no  lon 
ger  broad  enough  to  cover  abuse  and  anomaly.  The 
Cornish  freeholder  comes  to  the  polls  without  a  charter 
from  "  Richard  king  of  the  Romans,"  or  his  lord  para 
mount.  The  source  of  his  right  is  higher  up  than  Nor 
man,  or  Saxon,  or  Dane;  he  derives  it  from  the  first 
Briton  who  struck  his  plough  into  the  soil.  Intelligent 
minds  are  fully  awake  to  the  knowledge  that  the  spirit 
of  government  is  changing,  and  even  where  old  forms 
are  retained,  that  much  of  its  ancient  character  is  passing 
away.  They  are  accordingly  marking  out  and  measur 
ing  the  base  of  the  pyramid,  heretofore  hidden  in  the 
sands  or  encumbered  with  rubbish.  They  will  no  longer 
believe  those  careless  or  prejudiced  travellers  who  would 
convince  them  that  it  is  shapeless  and  monstrous,  since 
they  have  seen  some  of  its  proportions  for  themselves. 
They  want  its  length  and  breadth,  its  figure,  its  material, 
and  its  construction;  its  relation  to  the  superstructure, 
its  capacity  to  withstand  the  convulsions  of  nature,  the 
corrosion  of  time,  and  the  efforts  of  an  enemy. 

We  shall  owe  much  to  the  day  which  witnesses  the 


192  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

satisfactory  solution  of  this  problem,  or  a  closer  approxi 
mation  to  it.  It  will  change  the  minority  into  a  majority, 
and  we  shall  get  the  benefit  of  a  division  in  which  the 
strong  side  votes  with  us.  Its  arrival  may  be  deferred, 
but  the  light  which  it  throws  forward  is  already  reaching 
us.  Nay  it  has  reached,  in  times  long  past,  every  great 
spirit  whom  the  truth  has  made  free,  and  who,  in  daring 
to  assert  the  prerogative  of  human  thought,  has  done  his 
part  in  the  enfranchisement  of  his  species.  Our  own  coun 
try  is  an  incident  in  the  history  of  improvement,  the 
sequel  of  which,  if  unfortunate,  may  influence,  but  can 
not  finally  obstruct,  the  progress  of  knowledge.  The 
heretic  (as  he  was  called)  who  fled  into  the  desert  to  es 
cape  the  fagot  of  his  orthodox  brethren,  in  the  early  days 
of  the  church,  had  the  same  cause  with  the  pilgrims 
whom  the  Stuarts  drove  across  the  Atlantic.  The  one 
left  a  name,  the  other  founded  an  empire,  consecrated  to 
human  rights.  Name  and  empire  may  both  perish,  still 
thought  will  not  be  enslaved;  the  veteris  vestigia  flam- 
mae,  the  traces  of  that  ancient  fire,  cannot  be  obliterated. 
We  will  no  more  stake  the  hopes  of  liberty  upon  the 
fate  of  one  republic,  than  we  would  have  done  those  of 
conscience  upon  the  life  of  Wickliffe,  or  the  progress  of 
science  upon  the  freedom  of  Galileo.  We  see  them  rather 
in  the  history  of  mankind,  and  in  the  exertions  which 
every  age  renews  with  redoubled  energy  and  effect.  We 
see  them  in  the  increased  and  manifold  strength  with 
which,  like  Antaeus,  man  rises  from  his  successive  pros 
trations  upon  the  earth,  in  the  calmer  and  more  confi 
dent  bearing  of  her  advocates,  and  in  the  buoyant  and 
persevering  spirit  of  her  cause.  It  is  we  who  are  de 
pendent  upon  freedom,  not  freedom  upon  us. 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  193 


F©  ©HIF3F©IEID)o 

BY  WILLIAM  CLIFTON. 

IN  these  cold  shades,  beneath  these  shifting  skies, 
Where  fancy  sickens,  and  where  genius  dies; 
Where  few  and  feeble  are  the  Muse's  strains, 
And  no  fine  frenzy  riots  in  the  veins, 
There  still  are  found  a  few  to  whom  belong 
The  fire  of  virtue  and  the  soul  of  song; 
Whose  kindling  ardour  still  can  wake  the  strings 
When  learning  triumphs,  and  when  GifFord  sings. 
To  thee  the  lowliest  bard  his  tribute  pays, 
His  little  wild-flower  to  thy  wreath  conveys; 
Pleased,  if  permitted  round  thy  name  to  bloom, 
To  boast  one  effort  rescued  from  the  tomb. 

While  this  delirious  age  enchanted  seems 
With  hectic  fancy's  desultory  dreams, 
While  wearing  fast  away  is  every  trace 
Of  Grecian  vigour,  and  of  Roman  grace, 
With  fond  delight,  we  yet  one  bard  behold, 
As  Horace  polish'd,  and  as  Persius  bold, 
Reclaim  the  art,  assert  the  Muse  divine, 
And  drive  obtrusive  dulness  from  the  shrine. 
Since  that  great  day  which  saw  the  tablet  rise, 
A  thinking  block,  and  whisper  to  the  eyes, 
No  time  has  been  that  touch' d  the  Muse  so  near, 
No  age  when  learning  had  so  much  to  fear, 
As  now,  when  love-lorn  ladies  light  verse  frame, 
And  every  rebus-weaver  talks  of  fame. 
17 


194  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

When  Truth  in  classic  majesty  appeared, 
And  Greece,  on  high,  the  dome  of  science  reared, 
Patience  and  perseverance,  care  and  pain 
Alone  the  steep,  the  rough  ascent  could  gain: 
None  but  the  great  the  sun-clad  summit  found; 
The  weak  were  baffled,  and  the  strong  were  crowned, 
The  tardy  Transcript's  high  wrought  page  confined 
To  one  pursuit  the  undivided  mind. 
No  venal  critic  fattened  on  the  trade; 
Books  for  delight,  and  not  for  sale  were  made. 
Then  shone,  superior,  in  the  realms  of  thought, 
The  chief  who  governed,  and  the  sage  who  taught; 
The  Drama  then  with  deathless  bays  was  wreathed, 
The  statue  quickened,  and  the  canvass  breathed. 
The  poet  then,  with  unresisted  art, 
Swayed  every  impulse  of  the  captive  heart. 
Touched  with  a  beam  of  Heaven's  creative  mind, 
His  spirit  kindled,  and  his  taste  refined; 
Incessant  toil  inform'd  his  rising  youth; 
Thought  grew  to  thought,  and  truth  attracted  truth, 
Till,  all  complete,  his  perfect  soul  displayed 
Some  bloom  of  genius  which  could  never  fade. 
So  the  sage  oak,  to  Nature's  mandate  true, 
Advanced  but  slow,  and  strengthened  as  it  grew! 
But  when  at  length,  (full  many  a  season  o'er,) 
Its  virile  head,  in  pride,  aloft  it  bore; 
When  stedfast  were  its  roots,  and  sound  its  heart, 
It  bade  defiance  to  the  insect's  art, 
And,  storm  and  time  resisting,  still  remains 
The  never  dying  glory  of  the  plains. 

Then,  if  some  thoughtless  Bavius  dared  appear, 
Short  was  his  date,  and  limited  his  sphere; 
He  could  but  please  the  changeling  mob  a  day, 
Then,  like  his  noxious  labours,  pass  away: 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  195 

So,  near  a  forest  tall,  some  worthless  flower 
Enjoys  the  triumph  of  its  gaudy  hour, 
Scatters  its  little  poison  thro'  the  skies, 
Then  droops  its  empty,  hated  head,  and  dies. 

Still,  as  from  famed  Ilyssus'  classic  shore, 
To  Mincius'  banks,  the  Muse  her  laurel  bore, 
The  sacred  plant  to  hands  divine  was  given, 
And  deathless  Maro  nursed  the  boon  of  Heaven. 
Exalted  bard!  to  hear  thy  gentler  voice, 
The  valleys  listen,  and  their  swains  rejoice; 
But  when,  on  some  wild  mountain's  awful  form, 
We  hear  thy  spirit  chaunting  to  the  storm, 
Of  battling  chiefs,  and  armies  laid  in  gore, 
We  rage,  we  sigh,  we  wonder  and  adore. 
Thus  Rome,  with  Greece,  in  rival  splendour  shone, 
But  claimed  immortal  satire  for  her  own; 
While  Horace,  pierced,  full  oft,  the  wanton  breast 
With  sportive  censure,  and  resistless  jest; 
And  that  Etrurian,  whose  indignant  lay 
Thy  kindred  genius  can  so  well  display, 
With  many  a  well  aimed  thought,  and  pointed  line, 
Drove  the  bold  villain  from  his  black  design. 
For,  as  those  mighty  masters  of  the  lyre, 
With  temper'd  dignity,  or  quenchless  ire, 
Through  all  the  various  paths  of  science  trod, 
Their  school  was  NATURE  and  their  teacher  GOD. 
Nor  did  the  Muse  decline  till,  o'er  her  head, 
The  savage  tempest  of  the  North  was  spread; 
Till  armed  with  desolation's  bolt  it  came, 
And  wrapped  her  temple  in  funereal  flame. 

But  soon  the  arts,  once  more,  a  dawn  diffuse, 
And  Dante  hail'd  it  with  his  morning  Muse; 
Petrarch  and  Boecace  joined  the  choral  lay, 
And  Arno  glisten' d  with  returning  day. 


196  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

Thus  science  rose;  and,  all  her  troubles  passed, 
She  hoped  a  steady,  tranquil  reign  at  last; 
But  Faustus  came:  (indulge  the  painful  thought,) 
Were  not  his  countless  volumes  dearly  bought? 
For,  while  to  every  clime  and  class  they  flew, 
Their  worth  diminished  as  their  numbers  grew. 
Some  pressman,  rich  in  Homer's  glowing  page, 
Could  give  ten  epics  to  one  wondering  age; 
A  single  thought  supplied  the  great  design, 
And  clouds  of  Iliads  spread  from  every  line. 
Nor  Homer's  glowing  page,  nor  Virgil's  fire, 
Could  one  lone  breast,  with  equal  flame,  inspire, 
But  lost  in  books,  irregular  and  wild, 
The  poet  wonder'd  and  the  critic  smiled; 
The  friendly  smile,  a  bulkier  work  repays; 
For  fools  wilt  print,  while  greater  fools  will  praise. 

Touched  with  the  mania,  now,  what  millions  rage 
To  shine  the  laureat  blockheads  of  the  age. 
The  dire  contagion  creeps  thro'  every  grade, 
Girls,  coxcombs,  peers,  and  patriots  drive  the  trade: 
And  e'en  the  hind,  his  fruitful  fields  forgot, 
For  rhyme  and  misery  leaves  his  wife  and  cot. 
Ere,  to  his  breast,  the  watchful  mischief  spread, 
Content  and  plenty  cheer'd  his  little  shed; 
And,  while  no  thoughts  of  state  perplex'd  his  mind, 
His  harvest  ripening,  and  Pastora  kind, 
He  laughed  at  toil,  with  health  and  vigour  bless'd; 
For  days  of  labour  brought  their  nights  of  rest: 
But  now  in  rags,  ambitious  for  a  name, 
The  fool  of  faction,  and  the  dupe  of  fame, 
His  conscience  haunts  him  with  his  guilty  life, 
His  starving  children,  and  his  ruin'd  wife. 
Thus  swarming  wits,  of  all  materials  made. 
Their  Gothic  hands  on  social  quiet  laid, 
And,  as  they  rave,  unmindful  of  the  storm, 
Call  lust  refinement,  anarchy  reform. 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  197 

No  love  to  foster,  no  dear  friend  to  wrong, 
Wild  as  the  mountain  flood,  they  drive  along: 
And  sweep,  remorseless,  every  social  bloom 
To  the  dark  level  of  an  endless  tomb. 

By  arms  assailed,  we  still  can  arms  oppose, 
And  rescue  learning  from  her  brutal  foes; 
But  when  those  foes  to  friendship  make  pretence, 
And  tempt  the  judgment  with  the  baits  of  sense, 
Carouse  with  passion,  laugh  at  God's  controul, 
And  sack  the  little  empire  of  the   soul — 
What  warning  voice  can  save?  Alas!  'tis  o'er, 
The  age  of  virtue  will  return  no  more; 
The  doating  world,  its  manly  vigour  flown, 
Wanders  in  mind,  and  dreams  on  folly's  throne. 
Come  then,  sweet  bard,  again  the  cause  defend, 
Be  still  the  Muses'  and  religion's  friend; 
Again  the  banner  of  thy  wrath  display, 
And  save  the  world  from  Darwin's  tinsel  lay. 
A  soul  like  thine  no  listless  pause  should  know; 
Truth  bids  thee  strike,  and  virtue  guides  the  blow. 
From  every  conquest  still  more  dreadful  come, 
'Till  dulness  fly,  and  folly's  self  be  dumb. 


17 


19S  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 


BY  DR.  BENJAMIN  RUSH. 


IT  is  agreeable  to  observe  how  differently  modern 
writers,  and  the  inspired  author  of  the  proverbs,  de 
scribe  a  fine  woman.  The  former  confine  their  praises 
chiefly  to  personal  charms,  and  ornamental  accomplish 
ments,  while  the  latter  celebrates  only  the  virtues  of  a 
valuable  mistress  of  a  family,  and  a  useful  member  of  so 
ciety.  The  one  is  perfectly  acquainted  with  all  the 
fashionable  languages  of  Europe  ;  the  other,  "  opens  her 
mouth  with  wisdom"  and  is  perfectly  acquainted  with 
all  the  uses  of  the  needle,  the  distaff,  and  the  loom.  The 
business  of  the  one,  is  pleasure  ;  the  pleasure  of  the 
other,  is  business.  The  one  is  admired  abroad  ;  the 
other  is  honoured  and  beloved  at  home.  "  Her  children 
rise  up  and  call  her  blessed,  her  husband  also  and  he 
praiseth  her."  There  is  no  fame  in  the  world  equal  to 
this  ;  nor  is  there  a  note  in  music  half  so  delightful,  as 
the  respectful  language  with  which  a  grateful  son  or 
daughter  perpetuates  the  memory  of  a  sensible  and  affec 
tionate  mother. 

It  should  not  surprise  us  "that  British  customs,  with 
respect  to  female  education,  have  been  transplanted  into 
our  American  schools  and  families.  We  see  marks  of 
the  same  incongruity,  of  time  and  place,  in  many  other 
things.  We  behold  our  houses  accommodated  to  the  cli 
mate  of  Great  Britain,  by  eastern  and  western  directions. 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  199 

We  behold  our  ladies  panting  in  a  heat  of  ninety  de 
grees,  under  a  hat  and  cushion,  which  were  calculated  for 
the  temperature  of  a  British  summer.  We  behold  our 
citizens  condemned  and  punished  by  a  criminal  law, 
which  was  copied  from  a  country  where  maturity  in  cor 
ruption  renders  public  executions  a  part  of  the  amuse 
ments  of  the  nation.  It  is  high  time  to  awake  from  this 
servility — to  study  our  own  character — to  examine  the 
age  of  our  country — and  to  adopt  manners  in  every  thing, 
that  shall  be  accommodated  to  our  state  of  society,  and  to 
the  forms  of  our  government.  In  particular  it  is  incum 
bent  upon  us  to  make  ornamental  accomplishments,  yield 
to  principles  and  knowledge,  in  the  education  of  our  wo 
men. 

A  philosopher  once  said  "let  me  make  all  the  ballads 
of  a  country  and  I  care  not  who  makes  its  laws."  He 
might  with  more  propriety  have  said,  let  the  ladies  of  a 
country  be  educated  properly,  and  they  will  not  only 
make  and  administer  its  laws,  but  form  its  manners  and 
character.  It  would  require  a  lively  imagination  to  de 
scribe,  or  even  to  comprehend,  the  happiness  of  a  coun 
try,  where  knowledge  and  virtue,  were  generally  diffu 
sed  among  the  female  sex.  Our  young  men  would  then 
be  restrained  from  vice  by  the  terror  of  being  banished 
from  their  company.  The  loud  laugh  and  the  malignant 
smile,  at  the  expense  of  innocence,  or  of  personal  infir 
mities — the  feats  of  successful  mimicry — and  the  low 
priced  wit,  which  is  borrowed  from  a  misapplication  of 
scripture  phrases,  would  no  more  be  considered  as  re 
commendations  to  the  society  of  the  ladies.  A  double 
entendre,  in  their  presence,  would  then  exclude  a  gentle 
man  for  ever  from  the  company  of  both  sexes,  and  pro 
bably  oblige  him  to  seek  an  asylum  from  contempt,  in  a 
foreign  country.  The  influence  of  female  education 


200  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

would  be  still  more  extensive  and  useful  in  domestic  life. 
The  obligations  of  gentlemen  to  qualify  themselves  by 
knowledge  and  industry  to  discharge  the  duties  of  bene 
volence,  would  be  increased  by  marriage  ;  and  the  pat 
riot — the  hero — and  the  legislator,  would  find  the  sweet 
est  reward  of  their  toils,  in  the  approbation  and  applause 
of  their  wives.  Children  would  discover  the  marks  of 
maternal  prudence  and  wisdom  in  every  station  of  life  ; 
for  it  has  been  remarked  that  there  have  been  few  great 
or  good  men  who  have  not  been  blessed  with  wise  and 
prudent  mothers.  Cyrus  was  taught  to  revere  the  gods, 
by  his  mother  Mandane — Samuel  was  devoted  to  his  pro 
phetic  office  before  he  was  born,  by  his  mother  Hannah — 
Constantine  was  rescued  from  paganism  by  his  mother 
Constantia — and  Edward  the  Sixth  inherited  those  great 
and  excellent  qualities,  which  made  him  the  delight  of  the 
age  in  which  he  lived,  from  his  mother,  lady  Jane  Sey 
mour.  Many  other  instances  might  be  mentioned,  if  ne 
cessary,  from  ancient  and  modern  history,  to  establish  the 
truth  of  this  proposition. 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  201 


ILEXES 

ON  SEEING  AN  OLD  COPY  OF  THOMAS  MORE'S  MISCELLA 
NEOUS  LATIN  POEMS  DRILLED  THROUGH  BY  WORMS. 

BY  J.  C.  SNOWDEN. 

ONCE  on  a  time  (the  story's  short) 
Sir  Thomas  graced  King  Harry's  court; 
A  very  Stagyrite  at  Greek, 
And  famed  for  repartee  and  freak. 
His  janty  thoughts  in  crabbed  Saxon 
We  long  have  ceased  to  pay  a  tax  on; 
His  bed  of*  plank,  and  shirt  of  hair, 
No  more  create  a  stupid  stare; 
And  all  his  verse  and  prose  in  Latin 
Serve  only  moths  and  worms  to  fatten; 
Himself  and  they,  though  highly  rated, 
Have  both  been  since  decapitated. 

It  chanced,  a  quidnunc,  t'other  day, 
At  Dobson's  stopp'd,  'twas  in  his  way; 
And  as  he  view'd  the  learned  shelves, 
Espied  a  tome  in  dusty  twelves: 
The  title-page  upon  it  bore 
The  name  and  style — Sir  Thomas  More; 
And  modern  brains  to  puzzle  quite, 
'Twas  wrote  in  Latin  out  of  spite. 

Poems  of  every  name  and  nature, 
Odes  without  fire,  and  harmless  satire, 

*  Penances  to  which  Sir  Thomas  thought  proper  to  subject  himself. 


202  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

And  epitaphs  that  moved  no  pity, 
And  epigrams  that  were  not  witty, 
With  panegyrics  wrote  in  fear 
To  o'ershoot  the  mark — but  came  not  near, 
Were  crowded  here  in  imitation 
Of  Knickerbocker  celebration. 
Now  as  he  turn'd  the  pages  o'er, 
In  hope,  amidst  the  musty  lore, 
Some  wit  to  glean,  or  manly  sense 
To  bear  away  in  triumph  thence, 
He  spied  a  hole,  through  which  had  crept 
'A  worm,  as  on  the  shelf  they  slept, 
Which,  many  a  misanthropic  year, 
Had  here  indulged  his  ghostly  cheer, 
Till  every  leaf  was  more  or  less 
The  prey  of  his  insatiateness. 
The  reptile  seem'd  a  brute  of  sense, 
And  waged  his  war  with  some  pretence. 
Where  LOVE  displayed  his  rosy  bowers 
He  trod  with  caution  o'er  the  flowers; 
As  loth  to  mar  a  scene  so  fair, 
Or  else  he  deem'd  the  banquet  spare: 
Perhaps  'twas  prudence  bade  him  shun 
An  ambush  worse  than  pike  or  gun; 
Perhaps  he  now  had  lost  the  zest, 
And  spurn'd  what  once  he  fancied  best; 
So  on  he  journey'd,  till  he  came 
To  open  fields  and  fairer  game. 
Where  PANEGYRICS  round  him  lay, 
The  hero  urged  his  desperate  way; 
And,  heedless  or  of  lie  or  truth, 
He  plied  his  sharp  remorseless  tooth, 
To  prove  the  adage,  since  forgotten — 
"  In  fancy  ripe,  in  reason  rotten." 

These  past,  a  strange  amorphous  group 
Beneath  him  lay — an  armed  troop, 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  203 

That  naughty  dames  and  lords  assailed, 

Astrologers  and  knaves  impaled: 

Not  such  as  those  old  Martial  writ, 

That  show'd  their  teeth,  and  barked,  and  bit;  . 

But  such  as  you  and  I  might  write, 

To  ease  ourselves  of  present  spite. 

Besides,  there  are  some  arrant  fools 

Who  scorn  to  live  by  sober  rules; 

Self-loved  alone,  who,  soon  as  spoke, 

Discharge  a  friend  with  every  joke; 

And  who  amidst  their  missile  dirt 

Cry  out  forsooth,  'tis  all  in  sport: 

I  do  not  say  Sir  Tom's  are  such, 

But  put  this  in  by  way  of  crutch. 

Here  to  these  EPIGRAMS  he  clings, 

And  robs  them  of  their  guiltless  stings. 

Tired  of  his  critic  task  (the  elf 

Had  passed  his  life  upon  this  shelf, 

A  hundred  years  and  more  had  sped 

Over  his  labours  and  his  head) 

Poor  Dennis  lays  him  down  to  die 

Midst  EPITAPH  and  Elegy. 

But  e'en  in  death  (so  true  is  Pope) 

His  ruling  passion  still  had  scope, 

For  ere  the  gloomy  leaves  he  quitted, 

Was  every  dirge  with  malice  twitted. 

Nestor  of  worms!  thy  race  is  run! 

Dennis  of  worms!  thy  task  is  done! 

'Tis  mine  to  toll  thy  funeral  knell — 

Thou  Prince  of  Critics!  fare  thee  well! 


204  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 


BY  C.  B.  BROWN. 


IN  proportion  as  I  drew  near  the  city,  the  tokens  of  its 
calamitous  condition  became  more  apparent.  Every 
farm-house  was  filled  with  supernumerary  tenants  ;  fugi 
tives  from  home  j  and  haunting  the  skirts  of  the  road, 
eager  to  detain  every  passenger  with  inquiries  after  news. 
The  passengers  were  numerous  ;  for  the  tide  of  emigra 
tion  was  by  no  means  exhausted.  Some  were  on  foot, 
bearing  in  their  countenances  the  tokens  of  their  recent 
terror,  and  filled  with  mournful  reflections  on  the  for- 
lornness  of  their  state.  Few  had  secured  to  themeslves 
an  asylum  ;  some  were  without  the  means  of  paying  for 
victuals  or  lodging  for  the  coming  night  ;  others,  who 
were  not  thus  destitute,  yet  knew  not  whither  to  apply 
for  entertainment,  every  house  being  already  overstock 
ed  with  inhabitants,  or  barring  its  inhospitable  doors  at 
their  approach. 

Families  of  weeping  mothers,  and  dismayed  children, 
attended  with  a  few  pieces  of  indispensable  furniture 
were  carried  in  vehicles  of  every  form.  The  parent  or 
husband  had  perished  ;  and  the  price  of  some  moveable, 
or  the  pittance  handed  forth  by  public  charity,  had  been 
expended  to  purchase  the  means  of  retiring  from  this 
theatre  of  disasters  ;  though  uncertain  and  hopeless  of 
accommodation  in  the  neighboring  districts. 

Between  these  and  the  fugitives  whom  curiosity  had 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  205 

led  to  the  road,  dialogues  frequently  took  place,  to  which 
I  was  suffered  to  listen.  From  every  mouth  the  tale  of 
sorrow  was  repeated  with  new  aggravations.  Pictures 
of  their  own  distress,  or  of  that  of  their  neighbors,  were 
exhibited  in  all  the  hues  which  imagination  can  annex  to 
pestilence  and  poverty. 

My  preconceptions  of  the  evil  now  appeared  to  have 
fallen  short  of  the  truth.  The  dangers  into  which  I  was 
rushing,  seemed  more  numerous  and  imminent  than  I 
had  previously  imagined.  I  wavered  not  in  my  pur 
pose.  A  panic  crept  to  my  heart,  which  more  vehement 
exertions  were  necessary  to  subdue  or  control  ;  but  I 
harbored  not  a  momentary  doubt  that  the  course  which 
I  had  taken  was  prescribed  by  duty.  There  was  no  dif 
ficulty  or  reluctance  in  proceeding.  All  for  which  my 
efforts  were  demanded,  was  to  walk  in  this  path  without 
tumult  or  alarm. 

Various  circumstances  had  hindered  me  from  setting 
out  upon  this  journey  as  early  as  was  proper.  My  fre 
quent  pauses  to  listen  to  the  narratives  of  travellers,  con 
tributed  likewise  to  procrastination.  The  sun  had  nearly 
set  before  I  reached  the  precincts  of  the  city.  I  pursued 
the  track  which  I  had  formerly  taken,  and  entered  High 
street  after  nightfall.  Instead  of  equipages  and  a  throng 
of  passengers,  the  voice  of  levity  and  glee,  which  I  had 
formerly  observed,  and  which  the  mildness  of  the  season 
would,  at  other  times,  have  produced,  I  found  nothing 
but  a  dreary  solitude. 

The  market-place,  and  each  side  of  this  magnificent 
avenue  were  illuminated,  as  before,  by  lamps  ;  but  be 
tween  the  verge  of  Schuylkill  and  the  heart  of  the  city, 
I  met  not  more  than  a  dozen  figures ;  and  these  were 
ghost-like,  wrapt  in  cloaks,  from  behind  which  they  cast 
upon  me  glances  of  wonder  and  suspicion ;  and  as  I  ap-» 
18 


206  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

preached,  changed  their  course,  to  avoid  touching  me. 
Their  clothes  were  sprinkled  with  vinegar ;  and  their 
nostrils  defended  from  contagion  by  some  powerful  per 
fume. 

I  cast  a  look  upon  the  houses,  which  I  recollected  to 
have  formerly  been,  at  this  hour,  brilliant  with  lights,  re 
sounding  with  lively  voices,  and  thronged  with  busy 
faces.  Now  they  were  closed,  above  and  below  ;  dark, 
and  without  tokens  of  being  inhabited.  From  the 
upper  windows  of  some,  a  gleam  sometimes  fell  upon  the 
pavement  I  was  traversing,  and  showed  that  their  ten 
ants  had  not  fled,  but  were  secluded  or  disabled. 

These  tokens  were  new,  and  awakened  all  my  panics. 
Death  seemed  to  hover  over  this  scene,  and  I  dreaded 
that  the  floating  pestilence  had  already  lighted  on  my 
frame.  I  had  scarcely  overcome  these  tremors,  when  I 
approached  a  house,  the  door  of  which  was  opened,  and 
before  which  stood  a  vehicle,  which  I  presently  recogni 
sed  to  be  a  hearse. 

The  driver  was  seated  on  it.  I  stood  still  to  mark  his 
visage,  and  to  observe  the  course  which  he  proposed  to 
take.  Presently  a  coffin,  borne  by  two  men,  issued  from 
the  house.  The  driver  was  a  negro,  but  his  companions 
were  white.  Their  features  were  marked  by  ferocious 
indifference  to  danger  or  pity.  One  of  them  as  he  assist 
ed  in  thrusting  the  coffin  into  the  cavity  provided  for  it, 
said,  I'll  be  damned  if  I  think  the  poor  dog  was  quite 
dead.  It  wasn't  the  fever  that  ailed  him,  but  the  sight 
of  the  girl  and  her  mother  on  the  floor.  I  wonder  how 
they  all  got  into  that  room.  What  carried  them  there  ? 

The  other  surlily  muttered,  their  legs  to  be  sure. 

But  what  should  they  hug  together  in  one  room  for  ? 

To  save  us  trouble  to  be  sure. 

And  I  thank  them  with  all  my  heart ;  but  damn  it,  it 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  207 

wasn't  right  to  put  him  in  his  coffin  before  the  breath 
was  fairly  gone.  I  thought  the  last  look  he  gave  me, 
told  me  to  stay  a  few  minutes. 

Pshaw  !  He  could  not  live.  The  sooner  dead  the  bet 
ter  for  him  :  as  well  as  for  us.  Did  you  mark  how  he 
eyed  us,  when  we  carried  away  his  wife  and  daughter  ? 
I  never  cried  in  my  life,  since  I  was  knee-high,  but  curse 
me  if  I  ever  felt  in  better  tune  for  the  business  than  just 
then.  Hey  !  continued  he,  looking  up,  and  observing 
me  standing  a  few  paces  distant,  and  listening  to  their 
discourse,  What's  wanted  ?  Any  body  dead  ? 

I  stayed  not  to  answer  or  parley,  but  hurried  forward. 
My  joints  trembled,  and  cold  drops  stood  on  my  fore 
head.  I  was  ashamed  of  my  own  infirmity  ;  and  by  vi 
gorous  efforts  of  my  reason,  regained  some  degree  of 
composure.  The  evening  had  now  advanced,  and  it 
behoved  me  to  procure  accommodation  at  some  of  the 
inns. 

These  were  easily  distinguished  by^ their  signs,  but 
many  were  without  inhabitants.  At  length,  I  lighted 
upon  one,  the  hall  of  which  was  open,  and  the  windows 
lifted.  After  knocking  for  some  time,  a  young  girl  ap 
peared,  with  many  marks  of  distress.  In  answer  to  my 
question,  she  answered  that  both  her  parents  were  sick, 
and  that  they  could  receive  no  one.  I  inquired,  in  vain, 
for  any  other  tavern  at  which  strangers  might  be  accommo 
dated.  She  knew  of  none  such :  and  left  me,  on  some 
one's  calling  to  her  from  above,  in  the  midst  of  my  em 
barrassment.  After  a  moment's  pause,  I  returned,  dis 
comforted  and  perplexed,  to  the  street. 

I  proceeded,  in  a  considerable  degree,  at  random.  At 
length  I  reached  a  spacious  building  in  Fourth  street,, 
which  the  sign-post  showed  me  to  be  an  inn.  I  knocked 
loudly  and  often  at  the  door.  At  length  a  female  open- 


208  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

ed  the  window  of  the  second  story,  and  in  a  tone  of  pee 
vishness  demanded  what  1  wanted  ?  I  told  her  that  I 
wanted  lodging. 

Go  hunt  for  it  somewhere  else,  said  she ;  you'll  find 
none  here.  I  began  to  expostulate  ;  but  she  shut  the 
window  with  quickness,  and  left  me  to  my  own  reflec 
tions. 

I  began  now  to  feel  some  regret  at  the  journey  I  had 
taken.  Never,  in  the  depth  of  caverns  or  forests,  was  I 
equally  conscious  of  loneliness.  I  was  surrounded  by 
the  habitations  of  men ;  but  I  was  destitute  of  associate 
or  friend.  I  had  money,  but  a  horse  shelter,  or  a 
morsel  of  food,  could  not  be  purchased.  I  came  for  the 
purpose  of  relieving  others,  but  stood  in  the  utmost  need 
myself.  Even  in  health  my  condition  was  helpless  and 
forlorn  ;  but  what  would  become  of  me,  should  this  fatal 
malady  be  contracted.  To  hope  that  an  asylum  would 
be  afforded  to  a  sick  man,  which  was  denied  to  one  in 
health,  was  unreasonable. 

The  first  impulse  which  flowed  from  these  reflections, 
was  to  hasten  back  to  Malverton  ;  which,  with  sufficient 
diligence,  I  might  hope  to  regain  before  the  morning 
light.  I  could  not,  methought,  return  upon  my  steps 
with  too  much  speed.  I  was  prompted  to  run,  as  if  the 
pest  was  rushing  upon  me,  and  could  be  eluded  only  by 
the  most  precipitate  flight 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  209 


M  ©  2ST  ©  ID  "STo 

BY  MORTON  MCMICHAEL. 

DEPARTED  one,  farewell ! 
A  long — a  last  farewell  we  bid  thee  now  : 
Pale  Death  hath  set  his  signet  on  thy  brow ; 

And  in  that  dreamless  cell, 
Where  worn  Mortality  casts  off  its  woes, 
In  blest  oblivion  of  all  earthly  throes, 

Where  but  the  lifeless  dwell, — 
Thou  hast  laid  down  in  everlasting  rest : 
Care  cannot  reach  thee  now,   nor   grief  distract  thy 
breast. 

Unfortunate  !  thy  soul 

Was  nobler  far  than  men's  of  common  mould  ; 
But,  through  thy  heart  a  tide  of  feeling  rolTd 

That  might  not  brook  control, 
Nor  be  restrained  in  its  impetuous  course, 
But  onward  rushed,  as  bounds  an  Arab  horse 

Seeking  his  destined  goal : 
Thy  spirit  sought  renown,  and  this  to  gain 
Thou  didst  encounter  toil,  and  penury,  and  pain. 

Alas  !  that  man  should  bow 
So  slavishly  before  the  phantom  Fame  ; 
Or  feverish  thirst  of  an  immortal  name 

Have  power  to  scathe  the  brow 
With  the  deep  lines  of  premature  decay. 
Those  outward  tokens  which  too  well  display 


210  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

What  words  may  not  avow — 
The  inly  spirit's  travail,  and  the  pain 
That  rolls  in  floods  of  fire  aross  the  aching  brain. 

Thine  was  a  hapless  fate  ! 
Though  Genius  girt  thee  with  his  magic  spell, 
And  bright-eyed  Fancy  loved  with  thee  to  dwell, 

And  thy  rapt  mind,  elate, 

Borne  upward  on  its  viewless  wings  would  soar 
The  empyrean  through,  and  all  its  heights  explore; 

Yet  couldst  thou  not  create, 
With  all  thy  gifted  skill,  the  deathless  name 
For  which  thy  bosom  burned  with  an  absorbing  flame. 

Thou  wert  but  young  to  die  ! 
Yet  brief  and  transient  as  thy  life  hath  been, 
In  gazing  o'er  its  many-coloured  scene, 

Too  much  we  may  descry 
Of  deep  and  wasting  care,  and  the  keen  sense 
Of  injury  and  wrong,  corroding  and  intense  ; 

Then  better  thus  to  lie 
In  thine  appointed  house,  the  narrow  grave, 
Than  be  to  this  cold  world  a  victim  or  a  slave. 

Lamented  one  !  fond  eyes 
Have  wept  for  thee  till  all  their  founts  were  dry, 
And  from  fond  lips  hath  burst  the  thrilling  cry  ; 

And  moans  and  choking  sighs 

Have  swelled  the  anguish'd  heart,  and  that  deep  grief, 
To  which  nor  time  nor  change  can  bring  relief : 

Untimely  sacrifice  ! 

Friendship  hath  poured  for  thee  the  willing  tear, 
And  strangers  mourned  thy  doom  standing  beside  thy 

bier. 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  21 

Yet,  let  us  not  repine  : 
Thy  loss  of  earth  to  thee  is  heavenly  gain. 
Thou  hast  exchanged  a  state  of  wo  and  pain, 

For  one  that's  all  divine  ; 
And  springing  from  the  darkness  of  thy  clay, 
Uprisen  in  a  new  and  glorious  day  : 

The  place  of  rest  is  thine— 
Thy  race  is  o'er — thou  hast  obtained  the  goal, 
Where  mortal  sin  and  strife  no  more  possess  control. 


212  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 


BY  DR.  JAMES  RUSH. 


SCHOOLMEN  make  a  distinction  between  thoughts  and 
feelings,  and  common  usage  has  adopted  their  language. 
This  is  not  the  place  for  controversy  on  this  point:  nor 
is  it  necessary  to  inquire,  deliberately,  whether  the  above 
distinction  refers  to  the  essential  nature  of  the  things  or 
to  their  degrees.  Some  whose  powers  of  analysis  enable 
them  to  see  beyond  the  common  reach,  may  be  disposed 
to  adopt  the  system  that  supposes  thoughts  and  feelings 
to  be  various  degrees  of  intensity  in  ideas:  since  that  func 
tion  which  may  be  noted  as  a  mere  thought  in  one,  has 
in  another,  from  a  further  urging,  and  not  from  a  differ 
ence  of  motive,  the  bright  hue  of  a  feeling;  and  since  in 
the  same  person,  at  different  times,  like  circumstances 
produce,  according  to  the  varied  susceptibility  of  excite 
ment,  the  mental  condition  of  either  a  feeling  or  a  thought. 
Perhaps  it  might  not  be  a  difficult  or  tedious  task,  to 
show  that  these  functions  of  the  mind  have  many  acci 
dents  in  common;  and  that  no  definite  line  of  demarcation 
can  be  drawn  between  them.  However  inseparably  in 
volved  these  accidents  may  be,  at  their  points  of  affinity, 
they  are  in  their  more  remote  relationships,  either  in 
kind  or  degree,  distinguishably  different.  The  effect  of 
the  voice  in  conveying  these  manifest  peculiarities  of  sen 
timent  or  feeling,  is  called,  in  the  language  of  Elocution, 
the  Expression  of  Speech. 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  213 

The  classifications  of  science  were  instituted  to  assist 
the  memory  and  imagination;  but  while  they  fulfil  the 
purpose  of  communicating  and  preserving  knowledge, 
they  unfortunately  produce  the  undesigned  hindrance  of 
its  alteration  or  advancement,  by  their  vain  assumption 
of  its  completion.  The  endless  revolutions  of  scientific 
arrangements  are  full  of  admonitions:  yet  we  forget'how 
often  the  fictitious  affinities  and  the  distinctions  of  sys 
tem,  have  on  the  one  hand  presumptuously  united  the 
real  divisions  of  nature,  and  on  the  other  broken  the 
beautiful  connection  of  the  circle  of  truth. 

I  can  as  well  suppose  all  those  works  of  usefulness  are 
already  accomplished,  which  are  foretold  by  the  scope  of 
human  faculties,  as  that  the  arts  which  employ  taste,  have 
yielded  up  all  the  accuracy  of  their  principles,  and  their 
sources  of  enjoyment.  Let  us  leave  the  seventh  day  of 
rest,  to  the  holiday  rejoicings  of  patriots  and  politicians, 
who  look  upon  their  copied  creations,  and  cunning 
schemes  for  human  misery,  and  pronounce  them  original 
and  finished  and  good.  Let  them  build  strongly  around 
the  perfection  of  their  Chartas  and  Constitutions.  Let 
them  guard  the  ark  of  a  forefather's  wisdom,  and  pro 
claim  its  holiness  toathe  people,  for  the  safety,  honor,  and 
emolument  of  the  keeper.  The  real  creators  of  Know 
ledge  have  never  yet  found,  and  perhaps  never  will  find, 
their  day  of  rest:  and  the  proud  forefathers  of  all  the 
great  works  of  usefulness  and  of  glory,  are,  by  the  use 
of  that  same  magic  which  raised  their  own  extraordinary 
creations,  transmuted  to  corrigible  children  in  the  eye  of 
the  advancing  labour  of  a  later  age. 

It  has  been  alleged  of  the  expression  of  speech,  that 
the  discrimination  of  its  modes  is  beyond  the  ability  of 
the  human  ear.  If  the  term  human  ear  is  sarcastically 
used  for  that  fruitlessly  busy  and  slavish  organ,  which 


214  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

has  so  long  listened  for  the  clear  voice  of  nature,  amid 
the  conflicting  tumult  of  opinion  and  authority,  we  must 
admit  the  truth  of  the  assertion.  But  it  is  not  true  of  the 
keen,  industrious,  and  independent  exercise  of  the  senses: 
nor  can  it  be  affirmed,  without  profanity,  of  the  supre 
macy  of  that  power  of  observation  which  was  counselled 
and  deputed  at  creation,  for  the  effective  gathering  of 
truth,  and  the  progressive  improvement  of  mankind. 

The  victory  over  nature  must  be  the  joint  work  of  man 
and  time:  and  having  often,  with  more  curiosity  than 
hope,  consulted  the  thoughts  of  others,  on  the  possibility 
of  delineating  the  signs  of  expression,  I  have  generally 
received  some  query  like  this — Is  it  possible  to  recog 
nise  and  measure  all  those  delicate  variations  of  sound, 
which  have  passed  so  long  without  detection,  and  which 
seem  scarcely  more  amenable  to  sense  than  the  atoms  of 
air  on  which  they  are  made? — It  is  possible  to  do  all  this: 
and  if  we  cannot  "  find  a  way"  for  this  conquest  over 
nature,  "  let  us,"  with  the  maxim,  and  in  the  contriving 
spirit  and  resolution  of  the  great  Carthagenian  captain, 
"  let  us  make  one." 

It  will  not  be  denied,  that  the  sounds  constituting  ex 
pression  may  be  distinctly  heard,  and  that  there  is  no 
danger  of  mistaking  the  sentiments  which  dictate  them. 
No: — it  is  the  faint  nature  and  rapidly  commingling  varie 
ty  only,  of  these  sounds  that  cannot  be  distinguished.  I 
leave  it  to  those  who  make  this  objection,  to  reflect  on 
the  truism,  that  there  is  nothing  in  the  nature  of  sound 
but  the  audible:  and,  as  the  feelings  are  so  readily  recog 
nised  in  its  varieties,  to  ask  themselves  whether  a  distinct 
measurement  is  not  implied  in  that  recognition.  The 
truth  is,  the  delicate  sounds  of  expression  are  always  ac 
tually  measured  in  the  strictest  meaning  of  the  word,  but 
they  have  never  been  named:  and  although  all  persons 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  215 

who  are  observant  in  this  way,  have  nearly  an  equally 
acute  perception  of  the  expression  of  speech,  they  have 
no  language  for  designating  those  delicate  discriminations 
which  are  every  day  unconsciously  made  even  by  the 
popular  ear. 


216  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 


BY  H.  D.  GILPIN. 

HAIL,  HOLY  MAIDS!  who  haunted  once  the  steep, 
That  hangs  o'er  Delphi's  old  prophetic  fane  ; 
Hail,  holy  maids  !  who  still  your  influence  keep, 
Still  claim  the  poet's  vows,  and  bless  his  strain : 
Pass'd  of  all  others  is  the  fabled  reign, 
Which  faith  and  genius  once  had  made  divine ; 
The  cavern  breathes  its  omens  all  in  vain, 
No  suppliants  bow,  no  votive  altars  shine, 
No   trembling   priestess   chants,    nor    God    protects    the 
shrine. 

The  wandering  Dryad  has  forgot  her  bower, 
The  Naiads  all  have  left  the  lonely  spring, 
Fair  Dian  sports  not  at  her  twilight  hour, 
The  bird  of  Venus  plumes  no  more  her  wing, 
No  more  Apollo  strikes  the  heavenly  string, 
Mars'  fiery  helm,  Saturnia's  angry  frown, 
E'en  Jove's  dread  thunders,  now  no  terrors  bring; 
All,  save  in  ancient  story,  are  unknown — 
But    yet,  [as    then,    YE    reign — yet    worshipp'd,    though 
alone. 

Hail,  holy  maids  !  in  many  a  ruder  clime 
Than  that  of  fairy  Greece,  ye  linger  still — 
Still  proudly  triumph  o'er  the  spell  of  time, 
O'er  war,  o'er  glory,  gain'd  from  human  ill ; 
And  they,  who  once  fame's  loudest  blast  could  fill, 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  217 

Less  than  the  humblest  votaiy  of  your  smile, 
Now  in  some  narrow  grave  forgotten  dwell — 
But  HE,  the  gathering  wrinkle  can  beguile 
From  Time's  old  brow,    and    seize  immortal   youth  the 
while. 

Are  not  these  turrets  symbols  of  your  power  ? — 
From  whom  the  pomp  of  that  sepulchral  cell  ? — 
Warriors,  and  priests,  and  sages — that  their  hour, 
Their  passing  hour,  have  fill'd  and  filFd  it  well ; 
Warriors,  who  tamed  the  proud,  the  infidel ; 
Priests,  who  have  led  the  erring  soul  to  God ; 
Sages  admired — yea  loved  ;  long  tablets  tell 
Their  fame,  and  gaudy  scutcheons  their  abode — 
Yet  who  for  thought  of  them,  these  halls  and  aisles  hath 
trod? 

No  !  no  !  they  do  not  give  these  towers  their  charms, 
'Tis  not  for  them,  that  wandering  strangers  come, 
That  genius  lingers,  beauty's  bosom  warms — 
They  warm,  they  linger,  o'er  a  poet's  tomb. 
Yes  !  holy  maids  !  that  poet's  hallow'd  doom — 
Hallow'd  if  generous  virtues  may  atone 
For  human  frailty — shall  your  lamp  relume, 
Your  shrine  restore,  in  scenes  to  fame  unknown, 
And  many  a  breast,  now  cold,  the  potent  spell  shall  own. 


19 


218  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 


IP  ©  3S  "ft  IE  "2"o 


BY  E.    BURKE   FISHER. 


IT  has  been  asserted,  that  the  love  of  Poetry  is  one  of 
the  most  absorbing  and  general  principles  of  the  human 
soul,  and  in  investigating  its  assimilation  with  character, 
its  effects  upon  the  history  and  manners  of  nations,  and 
more  especially  its  prevailing  influences  in  the  ruder 
ages,  we  see  that  the  characteristics  of  a  people  may  be 
more  accurately  deduced  from  their  practical  literature, 
than  their  constitutional  laws.  It  is  the  vehicle  of  those 
emotions,  which  spring  directly  from  the  heart,  untramel- 
ed  by  the  cold  dictates  of  policy  and  scorning  the  adven 
titious  barriers  of  prudence,  infuses  into  contiguous  ob 
jects  a  portion  of  its  own  fire,  and  while  elevating  the 
standard  of  language  also  serves  to  convey  a  lasting 
spiritual  impression.  Whether  considered  as  the  agent  of 
genius  in  giving  birth  to  its  glowing  conceptions,  or  drill 
ed  in  the  imitative,  artificial  school  of  the  last  two  centu 
ries,  we  find  it  exercising  unlimited  sway  over  the  mind, 
tempering  the  earlier  ages  with  those  beneficial  influences 
which  gradually  dispelled  the  mists  of  barbarism  from 
the  ancient  world,  and  causing  civilisation  to  spring  like 
a  well  sinewed  giant  into  universal  dominion,  strong  in 
its  most  essential  elements,  the  thirst  for  chivalrous  deeds, 
and  the  consequent  desire  for  their  portraiture  in  song. 

"  I  would  rather  be  the  author  of  the  national  songs  of 
a  people,  than  of  their  laws" — is  the  truism  of  a  writer 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  219 

of  our  own  times,  while  commenting  upon  the  enthusiasm 
with  which  the  French  people  chanted  the  celebrated 
Marsellois  hymn,  which  awoke  in  the  bosom  of  France, 
a  fire  of  erring  patriotism,  so  phrenzied,  and  powerful, 
that  crowns  were  trampled^nder  foot  and  sceptres  broken, 
told  that  a  new  spirit  now  animated  the  people  who,  for 
centuries,  had  borne  with  their  slavery  as  though  it  was  a 
household  god,  a  familiar  spirit,  handed  down  from  their 
sires. — The  lament  of  the  Jewish  captives,  the  song  of  the 
Barmecides — the  war  chant  of  the  Cid  Rodrigo — the 
Rule  Brittania  of  the  British  people,  and  our  own  thrill 
ing  anthem  of  Hail  Columbia  are  cases  in  point — the  for 
mer  affecting  to  tears  the  wandering  children  of  Judah 
and  the  degenerate  sons  of  the  gallant  Spaniard — the  lat 
ter  awaking  to  ecstasy  the  love  of  country,  and  rendering 
us  the  playthings  of  ardent,  subjective  feelings,  which 
are  the  very  essence  of  lyric  poetry. 

Nor  should  the  Ranz  des  Vetches  of  the  Switzer  be 
forgotten  in  this  enumeration,  the  feelings  wrought  out 
by  hearing  it,  afford  a  striking  illustration  of  the  power  of 
song.  The  mercenary  bands  of  Swiss,  who  are  to  be  met 
with,  fighting  under  any,  and  every  banner,  are,  it  may 
be  fairly  presumed,  less  gifted  with  excitable  feelings  of 
national  enthusiasm,  than  the  inhabitants  of  Northern 
Europe,  yet  even  their  sluggish  natures  have  been  at  times 
aroused,  as  the  uncouth  strains  of  the  Alpine  horn  has  told 
of  home  and  its  associations,  and  the  soldier  of  fortune 
has  flagged  in  the  midst  of  the  fight — his  fiery  nature 
quelled  as  though  a  spirit  had  withered  its  daring,  while 
his  mind  was  wandering  far  away  to  his  snow  crested 
mountains,  and  the  cot  of  his  childhood.  How  beautiful 
ly  has  Mrs.  Hemans  expressed  the  idea  in  her  song  of 
the  Exile  of  Scio. 


220  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

"  I  miss  that  voice  of  waves,  the  first 
That  woke  my  childhood's  glee! 
The  measured  chime,  the  thundering  burst — 
Where  is  my  own  blue  Sea! — 

All  nations,  no  matter  how  small  their  numbers,  or 
insignificant  their  political  positions,  have  musical  associa 
tions,  and  by  rude,  and  unlettered  verse  keep  alive  the 
love  of  country.  The  roving  Ishmaelite,  who  treads  the 
soil,  consecrated  as  the  birthplace  of  the  Muse,  is  rich  in 
poetical  imagery,  the  barbarian  of  the  North,  the  savage 
child  of  the  wilderness,  and  even  the  degraded  islander 
of  the  South  Seas,  have  their  legendary  recollections, 
embodied  in  song,  uncouth,  yet  true  to  nature,  giving  to 
each  tribe  or  nation,  a  character  for  virtue  and  greatness, 
in  a  proportionable  ratio  with  the  ability  of  the  poet. 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  221 


BY  ALEXANDER  WILSON. 

WHEN  winter's  cold  tempests  aud  snows  are  no  more, 
Green  meadows  and  brown  furrow'd  fields  re-appearing, 

The  fishermen  hauling  their  shad  to  the  shore, 
And  cloud-cleaving  geese  to  the  Lakes  are  a-steering; 

When  first  the  lone  butterfly  flits  on  the  wing; 
When  red  glow  the  maples,  so  fresh  and  so  pleasing, 

O,  then  comes  the  Blue-bird,  the  HERALD  OF  SPRING  ! 
And  hails  with  his  warblings  the  charms  of  the  season. 

Then  loud  piping  frogs  make  the  marshes  to  ring  , 
Then  warm,  glows  the  sunshine,  and  fine  is  the  weather ; 

The  blue  woodland  flowers  just  beginning  to  spring, 
And  spicewood  and  sassafras  budding  together : 

O,  then  to  your  gardens,  ye  housewives,  repair; 
Your  walks  border  up  ;  sow  and  plant  at  your  leisure; 

The  Blue-bird  will  chant  from  his  box  such  an  air 
That  all  your  hard  toils  will  seem  truly  a  pleasure, 

He  flits  through  the  orchard,  he  visits  each  tree, 
The  red  flowering  peach  and  the  apple's  sweet  blossoms; 

He  snaps  up  destroyers  wherever  they  be, 
And  seizes  the  caitiffs  that  lurk  in  their  bosoms; 

He  drags  the  vile  grub  from  the  corn  he  devours; 
The  worms  from  their  webs  where  they  riot  and  welterj 

His  song  and  his  services  freely  are  ours, 
And  all  that  he  asks  is,  in  summer  a  shelter,     >^r 

19* 


222  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

The  ploughman  is  pleased  when  he  gleans  in  his  train, 
Now  searching  the  furrows — now  mounting  to  cheer  him; 

The  gardetfer  delights  in  his  sweet  simple  strain, 
And  leans  on  his  spade  to  survey  and  to  hear  him; 

The  slow  ling'ring  schoolboys  forget  they'll  be  chid, 
While  gazing  intent  as  he  warbles  before  'em 

In  mantle  of  sky-blue,  and  bosom  so  red, 
That  each  little  loiterer  seems  to  adore  him. 

When  all  the  gay  scenes  of  the  summer  are  o'er 
And  autumn  slow  enters  so  silent  and  sallow; 

And  millions  of  warblers,  that  charmed  us  before, 
Have  fled  in  the  train  of  the  sun-seeking  swallow; 

The  Blue-bird,  forsaken,  yet  true  to  his  home, 
Still  lingers,  and  looks  for  a  milder  to-morrow, 

Till  forced  by  the  horrors  of  winter  to  roam, 
He  sings  his  adieu  in  a  lone  note  of  sorrow. 

While  spring's  lovely  season,  serene,  dewy,  warm, 
The  green  face  of  earth,  and  the  pure  blue  of  heav'n, 

Or  love's  native  music  have  influence  to  charm, 
Or  sympathy's  glow  to  our  feelings  are  giv'n, 

Still  dear  to  each  bosom  the  Blue-bird  shall  be; 
His  voice,  like  the  thrillings  of  hope  is  a  treasure; 

For,  through  bleakest  storms  if  a  calm  he  but  see, 
He  comes  to  remind  us  of  sunshine  and  pleasure ! 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  223 


BY  W.  R.  JOHNSON. 

"  There  is  no  idea,  perhaps,  more  pleasing  to  an  ingenuous  mind,  than 
that  the  sentences  which  it  dictates  in  silence  and  obscurity,  may  give 
pleasure  and  entertainment  to  those  by  whom  the  writer  has  never  been 
seen,  to  whom  even  his  name  is  unknown.  There  is  something  peculiar 
ly  interesting  in  the  hope  of  this  intercourse  of  sentiment,  this  invisible 
sort  of  friendship,  with  the  virtuous  and  the  good;  and  the  visionary 
warmth  of  an  author  may  be  allowed  to  extend  it  to  distant  places  and  to 
future  times." — Mac  Kenzie. 

AMONG  the  multitude  of  honoured  names  with  which 
the  great  northern  capital  of  the  British  isles  is  decorated, 
few,  perhaps,  deserve  a  brighter  scutcheon  than  that 
which  is  affixed  to  the  above  sentiment.  It  is  not,  there 
fore,  so  much  with  a  view  to  respond  to  the  general  truth, 
as  to  furnish  in  regard  to  the  author  himself,  a  suitable 
illustration  of  the  last  clause  in  the  quotation,  that  I  have 
selected  it  for  the  motto  of  this  paper. 

When  speaking  of  Henry  Mac  Kenzie,  it  is  to  be  un 
derstood  that  I  refer  solely  to  his  literary  character. 
The  recent  announcement  of  his  death,  at  a  very  ad 
vanced  age,  has  recalled  to  my  mind  the  delight  often 
experienced,  in  the  perusal  of  his  charming  sketches 
and  more  elaborate  productions,  written  half  a  century 
ago;  and  has  excited  a  desire  to  know  something  of  his 
personal  history.  But  at  this  distance  it  is  nearly  impos 
sible  to  collect,  at  once,  any  thing  which  would  be  satis 
factory;  and  after  all,  his  mind,  not  his  person — -his  sen- 


224  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

timents,  not  his  manners — his  style  and  not  his  outward 
personal  adornments,  are  what  we  of  this  country  are 
most  concerned  to  know. 

His  own  countrymen  will,  no  doubt,  in  due  time  do  jus 
tice  to  his  biography,  and  on  their  province  I  would  by 
no  means  intrude.  But  intellect  is  of  no  peculiar  coun 
try;  it  asks  no  passports  when  it  leaves  the  land  where 
its  corporeal  dwelling  is  situated,  and  it  heeds  neither 
the  flattery  of  obsequious  friends,  nor  the  malice  of  local 
enemies — however  these  may,  at  home,  affect  the  tem 
porary  prosperity,  and  may  elevate  or  depress  the  spirits, 
of  the  possessor.  Neither  do  the  literary  and  scientific 
productions,  to  which  that  intellect  gives  birth,  depend 
for  their  acceptance  on  the  whims  and  caprices  of  the 
veering  goddess  fashion.  While  therefore,  we  leave  the 
personal  history  of  an  individual  to  his  own  friends  and 
countrymen,  we  may  without  arrogance,  venture  to  in 
vite  the  attention  of  those  who  admire  intellectual  worth, 
to  a  renewal  of  their  acquaintance  with  such  personages 
as  the  "  Lounger,"  "  the  Man  of  Feeling"  and  "  Julia  de 
Roubigne."  I  would  hold  up  the  untarnished  "  Mirror," 
both  to  vice  and  to  virtue,  as  reflecting  with  equal  fidelity 
the  hideousness  of  the  former,  and  the  gracefulness  of 
the  latter. 

The  first  trait  of  mind  to  which  I  would  advert  as  char-* 
acteristic  of  Mac  Kenzie,  is  that  of  ardent  and  delicate 
feeling; — not  the  rapture  which  evaporates  in  verbosity 
and  which  grows  turgid  where  it  would  seem  impas 
sioned,  but  the  glowing  and  sympathetic  elevation  of 
soul  which  springs  from,  and  flows  to,  the  "  godlike  of 
earth;"  which  with  natural  sensibility  for  its  basis,  has 
been  fostered  by  dwelling  on  the  glorious  and  the  lovely 
whether  of  the  physical  or  of  the  moral  world.  The  sen 
timents  conveyed  by  his  more  serious  reflections  and 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  225 

ethical  trains  of  thought,  are  accordingly  imbued  with 
the  colours  of  those  ohjects  in  life  which  had  excited  his 
sympathies,  and  led  to  the  construction  of  his  sketches, 
anecdotes,  and  tales. 

The  next  circumstance,  worthy  of  notice  in  his  produc 
tions,  is  the  purity  of  his  literary  taste.  In  every  form 
of  the  essay,  and  in  every  variety  of  description,  the  same 
characteristic  trait  marks  the  course  of  his  pen.  The 
broadest  humour  in  which  he  indulges  never  goes  so  far 
as  to  overleap  the  bounds  of  refinement  in  diction.  While 
his  keen  perception  of  the  ridiculous,  as  well  as  of  the 
beautiful,  must  have  induced  him  to  paint  both  in  the 
most  glowing  colours,  we  find  his  satire  always  as  chaste 
as  it  is  pungent,  and  his  irony  as  playful  as  it  is  discrimi 
nating. 

Another  mark  of  his  literary  character  is  versatility. 
Some  appear  to  imagine,  that  this  consists  in  an  ability 
to  compose  with  equal  success  novels,  poems,  histories, 
sermons  and  reviews,  but,  in  truth,  in  these  numerous 
forms  of  composition  there  may  be  no  greater  versatility 
displayed  than  in  the  various  parts  of  the  same  produc 
tion.  The  world  has  seen  several  works  bearing  the  title 
of  poems,  which  were  in  fact  nothing  more  than  novels 
in  verse;  and  the  writer  who  excels  in  historical  romance, 
may,  even  when  intending  to  write  of  sober  realities, 
actually  give  us  only  a  romance  of  history.  The  different 
strains  in  which  periodical  essays  alone  are  composed, 
exhibit  in  the  hands  of  MacKenzie,  as  great  and  as  varied 
talents  as  any  of  the  nominal  varieties  of  composition 
above  mentioned. 

But  evidence  that  talents  of  a  high  order  belong  to  any 
author,  is  to  be  sought  as  well  in  the  succession,  as  in  the 
nature  or  the  variety  of  his  productions.  The  contrary 
opinion  has,  I  am  aware,  many  practical  advocates,  who 


226  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

conceive  that  one  or  two  felicitous  efforts  may  stamp  a 
character  which  will  endure  the  ravages  of  time.  But  the 
genius  that  glitters  for  a  day,  will  seldom  be  found  to 
attract  admiration  for  an  age.  Even  military  glory,  the 
most  deceitful,  and  of  the  most  uncertain  foundation,  must, 
in  general,  have  more  than  one  signal  victory  to  give  it 
enduring  eclat.  How  much  more  that  which  rests  on 
the  imperishable  monuments  of  mind?  It  is  the  perse 
vering  effort,  or  rather  it  is  the  power  to  make  such  ef 
fort,  that  can  entitle  an  author  to  claim  our  full  confidence; 
to  challenge  our  unqualified  respect.  That  the  chief  con 
tributor  to  the  Mirror  and  the  Lounger,  had  that  com 
mand  of  powers  which  enabled  him  to  concentrate  at  will 
the  energies  of  his  mind  on  whatever  subject  he  chose  to 
handle,  appears  from  the  fact  that  of  the  hundred  and  ten 
papers  in  the  former,  no  less  than  forty  nine,  and  of  the 
hundred  and  one  of  the  latter,  fifty  five  bear  the  name 
of  Mac  Kenzie.  Both  these  papers  appeared  weekly  and 
though  some  time  elapsed  between  the  discontinuance  of 
the  former,  in  1780,  and  the  commencement  of  the  latter 
in  1785,  yet  there  is  no  evidence  that  the  interval  was 
occupied  in  the  preparation  of  the  subsequent  series.  I 
do  not  advert  to  the  frequency  of  his  efforts  as  unparal 
leled  or  superior  to  that  of  others  who  had  preceded  him 
in  the  same  walks  of  authorship,  but  as  placing  him  among 
the  front  ranks,  "'•«  w^/ua^o-i"  with  those  gigantic  heroes 
of  the  pen,  among  whom  to  be  second  is,  indeed,  vastly 
more  honourable  than  to  be  first  among  the  ordinary 
herd  of  authors. 

The  command  of  one's  powers,  may,  however,  accord 
ing  to  the  dispositions  of  the  individual,  be  turned  either 
to  good  or  to  evil;  to  the  erection  of  artificial  rules  of  life, 
and  the-  fostering  of  literary  selfishness,  or  to  the  wide 
and  general  diffusion  of  intellectual  pleasures.  The  ties 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  227 

of  humanity  may  possibly  escape  the  regards  of  an  author, 
while  he  fosters  the  conceit  of  the  cold  and  the  unfeeling. 
General  happiness  may  vanish  from  before  the  sight  of 
him  who  fixes  his  eagle  gaze  only  on  the  dazzling  splen 
dours  of  literary  fame.  Not  such  was  the  course  of  him 
whom  I  have  attempted  to  present*  to  the  reader.  His 
bent  of  mind  was  towards  the  generous  and  heartfelt 
charities  of  life.  He  reproved  and  satirized  the  follies 
of  the  great,  because  they  weaken  the  natural  ties  of 
brotherhood,  that  bind  our  race  together;  and  he  dis 
couraged  and  ridiculed  the  attempt  on  the  part  of  persons 
in  moderate  circumstances,  to  render  those  follies  more 
generally  prevalent.  The  reader  will  readily  recollect 
as  examples  of  this  raillery,  the  amusing  letters*  of  John 
Homespun  and  his  daughter,  and  those  of  the  ingenious 
Miss  Marjory  Mushroom. 

A  deep  sense  of  the  value  of  that  practical  morality 
which  is  founded  on  just  sentiments  of  piety,  is  every 
where  apparent  in  the  writings  of  Mac  Kenzie;  but  we 
have  no  prosing  lectures  on  the  efficacy  of  dogmas,  or  on 
the  value  of  this  or  that  abstract  speculation.  He  appears 
to  have  entertained  the  rather  obsolete  notion,  that  good 
ness  consists  in  being  good.  The  story  of  La  Roche 
exemplifies  the  nature  of  those  principles  and  feelings, 
which,  according  to  the  views  of  our  author,  can  give 
the  most  certain  consolations  in  adversity  and  cast  into 
comparative  obscurity  all  the  "  pleasures  of  philosophical 
discovery,  and  all  the  pride  of  literary  fame." 

The  humane  and  generous  spirit  of  this  author  will  be 
duly  appreciated,  when  it  is  considered,  that  he  was 
among  the  first  to  invoke  the  smiles  of  public  favour 

*See  "  Mirror"  Nos.  12  and  25;  also  "Lounger"  Nos.  17,  98,  53,  36, 
56  and  62. 


228  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

upon  the  early  efforts  of  the  poet  Burns.  At  a  time  when 
that  most  extraordinary  child  of  genius  was  struggling 
against  the  frowns  of  fortune  and  of  former  friends,  and 
when  he  had  by  great  efforts  caused  a  small  edition  of  his 
early  poetical  effusions  to  be  put  to  press,  at  a  country 
town  in  the  west  of  Scotland,  in  order  to  raise  the  means 
of  embarking  to  a  foreign  land,  where  his  genius  would 
in  all  probability  have  soon  gone  with  his  bones  to  the 
oblivion  of  a  West  Indian  charnel  house;  at  that  time  did 
the  amiable  Mac  Kenzie  immediately  invite  public  atten 
tion  to  the  simple,  natural,  and  "  truly  pastoral  strains" 
of  the  "Ayrshire  ploughman.*  "  The  fact  that  the  poet 
was  soon  found  in  all  the  circles  of  taste  and  refinement 
within  the  Scotish  capital,  where  he  was  "  universally 
admired,  feasted,  caressed,  and  flattered;"  and  that  his 
genius  and  writings  became  known  and  appreciated 
throughout  England,  is  ascribed,  and  probably  with  jus 
tice,  by  one  of  his  biographers,  to  the  timely  interference 
of  him,  who  thus  proved  that  the  "  man  of  feeling"  was 
not  a  mere  "  creature  of  the  brain." 

*See  Lounger,  No.  97. 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  229 


BY  J.  N.  BARKER. 


'Tis  said  that  music  is  the  food  of  Love, 
Light  diet,  certes,  though  excess  of  it, 
As  the  bard  sings — THE  BARD,  par  excellence — 
May  give  a  surfeit,  and  the  appetite 
Sicken  and  die — the  Irish  way,  perhaps 
The  poet  meant — to  live  a  little  longer. 
If  some  have  died  for  love,  'tis  probably 
Not  over-eating,  but  the  lack  of  food 
Led  to  such  sad  catastrophes.     The  limners 
Have  sometimes  made  this  Love  a  chubby  child, 
Like  Clara  Fisher,  (who's  a  little  love, 
Par  parenthese,)  in  Gobbleton.     But  who 
Would  think  of  Cupid,  as  of  one  o'  the  quorum, 
(Not  but  that  aldermen  can  love,  however,) 
Dying  of  calipash  and  calipee! — 
Yet  music  is  the  food  of  love,  nay  more, 
It  is  the  vital  air  of  love,  its  soul, 
It's  very  essence,  love  is  harmony 
Or  nothing;  love's  the  music  of  the  mind — 
(Perhaps  that  thought  is  stol'n  from  Lady  Morgan 
Whose  books  I  read  with  pleasure,  notwithstanding 
Some  pigmy  critics  here,  and  those  they  ape, 
Those  barbarous,  one-eyed  Polyphemuses, 
The  Cyclopes  of  the  English  Quarterly.) 
But  to  return  from  rambling — Cupid's  movements 
Are  the  true  "  poetry  of  motion,"  (that 
20 


230  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

I'm  sure  belongs  to  Lady  Morgan,)  full, 

We  must  confess,  of  strange  variety. 

From  epic  down  to  ballad.     Here's  a  pair 

Will  bow  and  curtsy,  in  chapeau  and  hoop, 

Then  stalk  the  stately  minuetto  round, 

Ending  where  they  began  their  metaphysics, 

With  bow  and  curtsy!  this  is  called  "  engagement"- 

Very  engaging  truly!  Here's  another, 

Goes  you  to  church  in  galliard,  and  returns 

In  a  coranto.     One  is  all  adagio, 

Another  naught  but  jig.     All  times,  all  movements, 

This  mighty  master  of  the  heart-strings  tries 

In  his  capricio:  most  full  of  crotchets, 

And  quavers,  too,  is  love — as  I  have  learn'd 

From  the  old  book  of  nature,  always  open. 

I  knew  a  gentleman  was  quite  unlover'd, 

('Twas  in  the  days  when  youthful  damsels  sew'd 

What  time  our  mothers  flourish' d,)  for  his  mistress 

Threaded  her  needle  with  a  too  careless  air 

While  he  read  Werter  to  her.     And  'tis  giv'n 

As  a  strict  verity,  when  Dame  Von  Haller 

First  rear'd  her  cambric  banner  o'er  the  stage, 

Commanding  tears  to  flow — two  German  barons, 

Warm  lovers  too,  as  German  barons  may  be, 

Broke  troth  and  plight  with  their  affianced  brides 

The  self-same  night — the  first  because  his  lady 

Was  weak  enough  to  weep  a  sister's  fall; 

The  other,  for  his  fair  display'd  a  heart 

So  hard,  it  would  not  melt  at  other's  woes. 

And  such  is  love — or  such,  at  least,  the  whims 

Of  those  by  courtesy  call'd  lovers,  fellows 

Who  plume  themselves  upon  their  manliness, 

And  arrogate  superiority 

Over  a  sex,  which,  in  all  things  where  love 

Truly  is  shown: — in  faith  and  constancy, 

(Ay,  sneer  ye  brainless  coxcombs,  constancy,) 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  231 

In  perfect  self-devotedness:  in  courage 

To  brave  the  world's  barbarity;  and  patience 

To  bear  e'en  wrong  from  him  for  whom  that  world 

Was  cast  aside,  and  lost:  in  truth  and  honour: 

In  pure,  enduring,  fond  and  fix'd  affection, 

Nature  has  placed  upon  an  elevation 

In  her  great  scale  of  being,  over  man; 

Man,  that  mere  egotist,  vain,  fickle,  selfish, 

In  whom  e'en  love  is  a  disease,  a  kind 

Of  tertain  that  by  fits  freezes  the  soul, 

Or  burns  it  up  with  fever — yea,  as  high 

As  the  most  glorious  Heavens  are  raised  above 

The  gross  and  sordid  Earth.     But  to  resume 

My  tale — which,  by  the  way,  I  have  not  yet 

Begun,  I  think — without  more  preface,  or 

Digression — for  I  hate  digressions  more, 

If  possible,  than  long  and  wordy  preface — 

But  who  could  ever  yet  encounter  woman 

And  keep  the  onward,  jog-trot,  business  pace, 

Passing  her  without  reverence? — To  my  story: — 

There  lived  in  Italy,  I  think  near  Florence, 

Some  brace  of  centuries  past,  a  good  old  count, 

Who,  in  his  fine  old  castle  rear'd  a  daughter, 

His  only  child — Angelica — so  named, 

Perhaps,  from  her  of  the  divine  "  Orlando;" 

Medoro's  fair  Angelica,  the  fondest 

And  tenderest  of  women,  whose  sweet  face, 

As  given  by  Cipriani  I  could  kiss 

Although  but  in  translation,  from  the  copper 

Of  Bartolozzi.     Our  Angelica 

Was  beautiful: — but  I  had  rather  not 

Describe  minutely,  lest  it  should  be  deem'd 

Invidious,  by  some  female  friend  of  mine 

Whom  the  description  suited  not.     'Tis  dangerous 

To  dwell  on  female  charms  too  long  or  warmly, 

Or  too  particularly — I  never  do, 


232  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

Save  in  a  sonnet  to  my  lady's  eye-brow, 
And  then,  if  that  be  flaxen,  I  avoid 
Praise  of  the  raven  arch,  and  vice  versa. 
So,  what  our  heroine  was,  in  shape  or  air 
And  feature  and  complexion — whether  pale 
And  interesting,  of  fragile,  sylph-like  form — 
Or  flush  and  fat — I  beg  a  million  pardons, 
I  mean — approaching  to  the  embonpoint, 
Haply  the  painter  may  divulge,  not  I. 
She  was  a  frank,  kind-hearted,  generous  creature — 
Had  proved  a  most  dear  daughter;  and,  within 
Her  innocent  heart  had  stores  of  precious  love 
To  bless  the  happy  husband,  far  beyond 
His  fondest  hope,  were  he  the  veriest  miser 
In  Hymen's  wide  domain.     I  can't  aver 
She  was  in  love,  for  she  had  liv'd  secluded, 
%      Shut  out  from  all  society,  to  please 

Her  good  old  sire,  who,  since  her  mother's  death, 

Grew,  to  be  plain,  hypochondrical. 

Yet  so  it  was,  she  was  betrothed,  to  one 

She  thought,  at  least,  she  loved.     Ippolito 

Was  a  fair  youth  of  a  right  noble  lineage, 

Who  came  from  Florence  duly  every  summer, 

To  rusticate  among  his  father's  oaks. 

Angelica  and  he  had  met — and  so 

Became  of  course,  in  the  country,  lovers — and 

The  match  being  eligible  on  either  side, 

The  estates  already  wed,  the  parents  smiled, 

The  notary  chuckled,  and  the  lovers  blush'd 

And  were  betrothed:  how  soon  a  contract's  made 

When  all  are  to  be  gainers.     Love,  however, 

Smiled  not,  it  seems,  on  those  solemnities. 

Perhaps  he  did  not  like  the  notary, 

Love  does  not  write  his  billets  doux  on  parchment. 

The  sequel  will  denote  he  was  displeased, 

Yet  such  a  sequel  to  a  tale  of  love 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  233 

Perhaps  was  never  read  of.     You  shall  hear. 
'Twas  near  the  day  of  marriage,  when  our  bride 
Stood  at  the  casement,  whence  she'd  often  watch'd 
The  light  step  of  her  lover,  as  he  came 
Across  the  smiling  meadow.     'Twas  a  day 
The  hottest  of  the  hottest  summer — one 
Almost  too  hot  for  love,  who's  fire  itself:         „•-  ^ '(' 
'Twas  afternoon — Angelica,  poor  girl, 
Had  not,  as  usual,  taken  her  siesta, 
(Why,  is  unknown — young  ladies,  it  is  said, 
Get  fidgetty  when  near  their  wedding  day.) 
I  would  advise  both  old  and  young,  who  live 
In  melting  latitudes,  not  to  omit 
Their  little  snug  siesta  after  dinner, 
It  is  refreshing,  and  prepares  the  mind 
And  body  too,  for  evening  business. 
Angelica  in  vain  look'd  far  and  wide 
For  her  Ippolito:  the  gentle  youth 
No  doubt  was  fast  asleep.     She  sat  her  down 
And  tried  her  lute — 'twas  out  of  tune,  and  harsh; 
Her  voice — 'twas  weak  and  husky.     Then  she  look'd 
Out  on  the  sylvan  scene — all  nature  seem'd 
Sunk  in  siesta;  not  a  single  bird 
Was  seen  or  heard;  the  very  flowers  gave  forth 
A  sleepy  kind  of  odour,  like  the  breath 
Of  slumb'ring  beauty.     There  was  not  abroad 
A  sound,  nor  scarce  a  motion.     The  dull  breeze 
No  longer  flapp'd  its  flagging  wings — it  slept. 
The  air  seem'd  powder'd  fire — all — all  was  hot, 
Hot,  hot  and  hush — that  e'en  the  waterfall 
That  glitter'd  in  the  sun,  look'd  like  the  gush 
Of  boiling  water  from  a  copper  kettle. 
Angelica  arose,  and  walk'd  across 
The  apartment  to  her  glass — how  natural: 
She  did  not  like  her  looks;  she  did  not  like 
The  glass,  nor  e'en  the  harmless  peacock's  feather 
20* 


234  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

That  hung  above;  who  can  like  any  thing 
In  such  hot  weather?     Then  she  sat  again, 
In  a  great  chair,  and  look'd  upon  her  flowers, 
And  took  a  volume  up,  and  laid  it  down, 
And  then  applied  her  compasses  to  the  globe, 
Haply  to  see  how  far  it  was  from  thence 
To  a  cold  country.     Nothing  would  avail, 
A  charm  was  in  the  air,  and  every  thing 
Must  sleep— books — compasses 
Fell  on  the  floor — and  slept;  Angelica 
Lean'd  back  her  head  in  her  great  chair — and  slept. 
I  do  not  know  how  long  the  lady  slumber'd, 
^These  are  particulars  my  manners  will  not 
Permit  me  to  pry  into,  but  'tis  clear 
'Twas  a  sound  nap  she  took.     Ippolito 
Had  finished  his  some  time,  and  made  his  toilet, 
Which  was  no  hasty  matter.     The  fresh  breeze, 
(Refresh'd  by  sleep,)  was  springing  up,  in  short, 
'Twas  almost  evening,  when  the  lover  stept 
Empassion'd  and  perfum'd  into  the  room. 
I  never  yet  could  fully  comprehend 
The  doctrine  of  antipathies — nor  pardon 
The  man  who  feared  or  hated  what  in  nature, 
Was  innocent  and  harmless — yet  there  be 
Such  arrant  fopperies — and  of  all  fopperies 
They  are  the  worst — and  of  this  worst  the  worst 
Is,  that  a  man  shall  hate  to  see  a  woman 
Eat,  and  so  forth — my  lord  Ippolito 
Was  no  Lord  Byron  in  the  main,  yet  he 
Was  as  ridiculous  in  this  particular. 
'Twas  his  aversion — what  a  pretty  term — 
To  see  or  hear  a  woman  sleep.     Ye  gods, 
Aversion  to  a  sleeping  woman — well, 
The  histories  do  not  say  Angelica 
Breathed  louder  than  young  ladies  ought  to  breathe 
When  they're  asleep— no  one  has  dared  to  say  it, 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  235 

Nor  would  I  for  ten  thousand  worlds  presume  it. 

But  'twas  enough — our  fine  Ippolito 

Yielded  to  his  aversion,  and  instead 

Of  gazing  on  the  blessed  sight  before  him, 

Like  the  rapt  votary  at  the  holy  shrine, 

Or  on  his  knees,  stealing  a  sacred  kiss 

From  the  fair  hand  that  hung  so  temptingly, 

Or  even  from  those  rich  and  ruby  lips 

That  seem'd  to  ask  it — if  those  little  freedoms 

Were  sanction' d  by  the  manners  of  the  age, 

I  know  not,  I,  but  think  that  kissing  lips 

Should  ne'er  go  out  of  fashion.     Our  fine  spark, 

Instead  of  this,  thrice  twirl'd,  with  lordly  finger, 

His  amiable  whiskers,  and,  while  she, 

Perhaps,  was  dreaming  of  the  senseless  ingrate, 

Took  snuff,  shrugg'd  up  his  shoulders,  turn'd  his  back, 

And  gallop'd  off  to  Florence. 

'Tis  not  thought 

Angelica  went  mad — of  all  God's  creatures, 
A  coxcomb  is  the  thing  soonest  forgotten. 


236  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 


BY  MISS  LESLIE. 

How  thrive  the  beauties  of  the  graphic  art? — Peter  Pindar. 

"  MR.  GUMMAGE,"  said  Mrs.  Atmore,  as  she  entered  a 
certain  drawing  school,  at  that  time  the  most  fashionable 
in  Philadelphia,  "  I  have  brought  you  a  new  pupil,  my 
daughter,  Miss  Marianne  Atmore.  Have  you  a  vacancy." 

"Why,  I  can't  say  that  I  have,"  replied  Mr.  Gum- 
mage;  "  I  never  have  vacancies." 

"  I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  it,"  said  Mrs.  Atmore;  and 
Miss  Marianne,  a  tall  handsome  girl  of  fifteen,  looked 
disappointed. 

"  But  perhaps  I  could  strain  a  point,  and  find  a  place 
for  her,"  resumed  Mr.  Gummage,  who  knew  very  well 
that  he  never  had  the  smallest  idea  of  limiting  the  num 
ber  of  his  pupils,  and  that  if  twenty  more  were  to  apply, 
he  would  take  them  every  one,  however  full  his  school 
might  be. 

"Do,  pray,  Mr.  Gummage,"  said  Mrs.  Atmore;  "do 
try  and  make  an  exertion  to  admit  my  daughter;  I  shall 
regard  it  as  a  particular  favour." 

"  Well,  I  believe  she  may  come,"  replied  Gummage: 
"  I  suppose  I  can  take  her.  Has  she  any  turn  for  draw- 

ing?" 

"I  don't  know,"  answered  Mrs.  Atmore,  "she  has 

never  tried." 

"  So  much  the  better,"  said  Gummage;  "  I  like  girls 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  237 

that  have  never  tried;  they  are  much  more  manageable 
than  those  that  have  been  scratching  and  daubing  at 
home  all  their  lives." 

Mr.  Gummage  was  no  gentleman,  either  in  appearance 
or  manner.  But  he  passed  for  a  genius  among  those  who 
knew  nothing  of  that  ill-understood  race.  He  had  a 
hooked  nose  that  turned  to  the  right,  and  a  crooked  mouth 
that  turned  to  the  left — his  face  being  very  much  out  of 
drawing — and  he  had  two  round  eyes  that  in  colour  and 
expression  resembled  two  hazel-nuts.  His  lips  were 
"  pea-green  and  blue,"  from  the  habit  of  putting  the 
brushes  into  his  mouth  when  they  were  overcharged 
with  colour.  He  took  snuff  inimitably,  and  generally 
carried  half  a  dozen  handkerchiefs,  some  of  which,  how 
ever,  were  to  wrap  his  dinner  in,  as  he  conveyed  it  from 
market  in  his  capacious  pockets;  others,  as  he  said,  were 
"  to  wipe  the  girl's  saucers." 

His  usual  costume  was  an  old  dusty  brown  coat,  cor 
duroy  pantaloons,  and  a  waistcoat  that  had  once  been  red, 
boots  that  had  once  been  black,  and  a  low  crowned  rusty 
hat — which  was  never  off  his  head,  even  in  the  presence 
of  the  ladies — and  a  bandanna  cravat.  The  vulgarity  of 
his  habits,  and  rudeness  of  his  deportment  all  passed  off 
under  the  title  of  eccentricity.  At  the  period  when  he 
flourished — it  was  long  before  the  time  of  Sully — the 
beau  ideal  of  an  artist,  at  least  among  the  multitude,  was 
an  ugly,  ill-mannered,  dirty  fellow,  that  painted  an  inch 
thick  in  divers  gaudy  colours,  equally  irreconcilable  to 
nature  and  art.  And  the  chief  attractions  of  a  drawing 
master — for  Mr.  Gummage  was  nothing  more — lay  in 
doing  almost  every  thing  himself,  and  producing  for  his 
pupils,  in  their  first  quarter,  pictures  (so  called)  that  were 
pronounced  "  fit  to  frame." 

"  Well,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Gummage,  "  what  do  you 


238  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

wish  your  daughter  to  learn?  figures,  flowers,  or  land 
scapes?" 

"  Oh!  all  three/'  replied  Mrs.  Atmore.  "  We  have 
been  furnishing  our  new  house,  and  I  told  Mr.  Atmore 
that  he  need  not  get  any  pictures  for  the  front  parlour, 
as  I  would  much  prefer  having  them  all  painted  by  Mari 
anne.  She  has  been  four  quarters  with  Miss  Julia,*  and 
has  worked  Friendship  and  Innocence,  which  cost,  alto 
gether,  upwards  of  a  hundred  dollars.  Do  you  know  the 
piece,  Mr.  Gummage?  There  is  a  tomb  with  a  weeping 
willow,  and  two  ladies  with  long  hair,  one  drest  in  pink 
the  other  in  blue,  holding  a  wreath  between  them  over 
the  top  of  the  urn.  The  ladies  are  Friendship.  Then 
on  the  right  hand  of  the  piece  is  a  cottage,  and  an  oak, 
and  a  little  girl  dressed  in  yellow,  sitting  on  a  green  bank, 
and  putting  a  wreath  round  the  neck  of  a  lamb.  Nothing 
can  be  more  natural  than  the  lamb's  wool,  it  is  done 
entirely  in  French  knots.  The  child  and  the  lamb  are 
Innocence." 

"  Ay,  ay."  said  Gummage,  "  I  know  the  piece  well 
enough — I've  drawn  them  by  dozens." 

"  Well,"  continued  Mrs.  Atmore,  "  this  satin  piece 
hangs  over  the  front  parlour  mantel.  It  is  much  prettier 
and  better  done  than  the  one  Miss  Longstitch  worked  of 
Charlotte  at  the  tomb  of  Werter,  though  she  did  sew  sil 
ver  spangles  all  over  Charlotte's  lilac  gown,  and  used 
chenille,  at  a  fi'penny-bit  a  needleful,  for  all  the  banks 
and  the  large  tree".  Now,  as  the  mantel-piece  is  provided 
for,  I  wish  a  landscape  for  each  of  the  recesses,  and  a  fi 
gure-piece  to  hang  on  each  side  of  the  large  looking-glass. 


*  Miss  Julianna  Bater,  an  old  Moravian  lady,  from  Bethlehem,  Penn 
sylvania,  who  was  well  known  in  Philadelphia,  many  years  since,  as  a 
teacher  of  embroidery. 


THE  PHILADELPHIA    BOOK.  239 

with  flower-pieces  under  them,  all  by  Marianne.     Can 
she  do  all  these  in  one  quarter?" 

«  No,  that  she  can't,"  replied  Gummage;  "  it  will  take 
her  two  quarters  hard  work,  and  may-be  three,  to  get 
through  the  whole  of  them." 

"  Well,  I  won't  stand  about  a  quarter  more  or  less," 
said  Mrs.  Atmore:  "  but  what  I  wish  Marianne  to  do 
most  particularly,  and,  indeed,  the  chief  reason  why  I 
send  her  to  drawing-school  just  now,  is  a  pattern  for  a 
set  of  china  that  we  are  going  to  have  made  in  Canton. 
I  was  told  the  other  day  by  a  New  York  lady,  (who  was 
quite  tired  of  the  queer  unmeaning  things  which  are  gen 
erally  put  on  India  ware,)  that  she  had  sent  a  pattern  for 
a  tea-set,  drawn  by  her  daughter,  and  that  every  article 
came  out  with  the  identical  device  beautifully  done  on 
the  china,  all  in  the  proper  colours.  She  said  it  was  talked 
of  all  over  New  York,  and  that  people  who  had  never 
been  at  the  house  before,  came  to  look  at  and  admire  it. 
No  doubt  it  was  a  great  feather  in  her  daughter's  cap." 
"  Possibly,  madam,"  said  Gummage. 
"  And  now,"  resumed  Mrs.  Atmore,  "  since  I  heard 
this,  I  have  thought  of  nothing  else  than  having  the  same 
thing  done  in  my  family;  only  I  shall  send  for  a  dinner 
set,  and  a  very  long  one  too.     Mr.  Atmore  tells  me  that 
the  Voltaire,  one  of  Stephen  Girard's  ships,  sails  for  Can 
ton  early  next  month,  and  he  is  well  acquainted  with  the 
captain,  who  will  attend  to  the  order  for  the  china.     I 
suppose  in  the  course  of  a  fortnight  Marianne  will  have 
learnt  drawing  enough  to  enable  her  to  do  the  pattern?" 
"  Oh!  yes,  madam — quite  enough."  replied  Gummage, 
suppressing  a  laugh. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Mrs.  Atmore.     "  And  now,  Mr. 
Gummage,  let  me  look  at  some  of  your  models." 
"  Figures,  flowers,  or  landscapes?"  asked  the  artist. 


240  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

«  Oh!  some  of  each,"  replied  the  lady. 
Mr.'  Gummage  had  so  many  pupils — both  boys  and 
girls — and  so  many  classes,  and  gave  lessons  besides,  at 
so  many  boarding-schools,  that  he  had  no  leisure  time 
for  receiving  applications,  and  as  he  kept  his  domicile 
incog.,  he  saw  all  his  visiters  at  his  school-room.  Fore 
seeing  a  long  examination  of  the  prints,  he  took  from  a 
hanging  shelf  several  of  his  numerous  port-folios,  and 
having  placed  them  on  a  table  before  Mrs.  Atmore  and 
her  daughter,  he  proceeded  to  go  round  and  direct  his 
present  class  of  young  ladies,  who  were  all  sitting  at  the 
drawing-desks  in  their  bonnets  and  shawls,  because  the 
apartment  afforded  no  accommodation  for  these  habili 
ments  if  laid  aside.  Each  young  lady  was  leaning  over 
a  straining-frame,  on  which  was  pasted  a  sheet  of  draw 
ing  paper,  and  each  seemed  engaged  in  attempting  to 
copy  one  of  the  coloured  engravings  that  were  fastened 
by  a  slip  of  cleft  cane  to  the  cord  of  twine  that  ran  along 
the  wall.  The  benches  were  dusty,  the  floor  dirty  and 
slopped  with  spilt  water;  and  the  windows,  for  want  of 
washing,  looked  more  like  horn  than  glass.  The  school 
room  and  teacher  were  all  in  keeping.  Yet  for  many 
years  Mr.  Gummage  was  so  much  in  fashion  that  no 
other  drawing-masters,  not  even  Beck  and  Smith,  had 
the  least  chance  of  success.  Those  who  recollect  the  ori 
ginal,  will  not  think  his  portrait  overcharged. 

We  left  Mr.  Gummage  going  round  his  class  for  the 
purpose  of  giving  a  glance,  and  saying  a  few  words  to 
each. 

"  Miss  Jones,  lay  down  the  lid  of  your  paint-box.  No 
rulers  shall  be  used  in  my  school,  as  I  have  often  told 
you." 

"  But,  Mr.  Gummage,  only  look  at  the  walls  of  my 
castle;  they  are  all  leaning  to  one  side;  both  the  turrets 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  241 

stand  crooked,  and  the  doors  and  windows  slant  every 
way." 

"  No  matter,  it's  my  rule  that  no  body  shall  use  a  rule. 
Miss  Miller,  have  you  rubbed  the  blue  and  bistre  I  told 
you?" 

"  Yes  sir;  I've  been  at  it  all  the  afternoon;  here  it  is." 

"  Why,  that's  not  half  enough." 

"  Mr.  Gummage,  I've  rubbed,  and  rubbed  till  my  arm 
aches  to  the  shoulder,  and  my  face  is  all  in  a  glow." 

"  Then  take  off  your  bonnet,  and  cool  yourself.  I  tell 
you  there's  not  half  enough.  Why,  my  boys  rub  blue 
and  bistre  till  their  faces  run  of  a  stream.  I  make  them 
take  off  their  coats  to  it." 

"  Mr.  Gummage,"  said  one  young  lady,  "  you  pro 
mised  to  put  in  my  sky  to-day." 

s(  Mr.  Gummage,"  said  another,  "  I've  been  waiting 
for  my  distances  these  two  weeks.  How  can  I  go  any 
farther  till  you  have  done  them  for  me?" 

"  Finish  the  fore-ground  to-day.  It  is  time  enough  for 
the  distances:  I'll  put  them  in  on  Friday." 

«  Mr.  Gummage,"  said  another,  "  my  river  has  been 
expecting  you  since  last  Wednesday." 

"  Why,  you  have  not  put  in  the  boat  yet.  Do  the 
boat  to-day,  and  the  fisherman  on  the  shore.  But  look 
at  your  bridge !  Every  arch  is  of  a  different  size — some 
big,  and  some  little." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Gummage,  it  is  your  own  fault — you 
should  let  me  use  compasses.  I  have  a  pair  in  my  box 
— do,  pray,  let  me  use  them." 

"  No,  I  won't.  My  plan  is  that  you  shall  all  draw  en 
tirely  by  the  eye." 

"  That  is  the  reason  we  make  every  thing  so  crooked." 

"I  see  nothing  more  crooked  than  yourselves,"  re 
plied  the  polite  drawing-master. 
21 


242  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

"Mr.  Gummage,"  said  another  young  lady,  raising 
her  eyes  from  a  novel  that  she  had  brought  with  her,  "  I 
have  done  nothing  at  my  piece  for  at  least  a  fortnight 
I  have  been  all  the  time  waiting  for  you  to  put  in  my 
large  tree." 

"  Hush  this  moment  with  your  babbling,  every  soul 
of  you,"  said  the  teacher,  in  an  under  tone:  "  don't  you 
see  there  are  strangers  here?  What  an  unreasonable  pack 
of  fools  you  are!  Can  I  do  every  body's  piece  at  once? 
Learn  to  have  patience,  one  and  all  of  you,  and  wait  till 
your  turn  comes." 

Some  of  the  girls  tossed  their  heads  and  pouted,  and 
some  laughed,  and  some  quitted  their  desks  and  amused 
themselves  by  looking  out  at  the  windows.  But  the  in 
structor  turned  his  back  on  them,  and  walked  off  towards 
the  table  at  which  Mrs.  Atmore  and  her  daughter  were 
seated  with  the  port  folios,  both  making  incessant  ex 
clamations  of  "  How  beautiful! — how  elegant! — how 
sweet!" 

Oh!  here  are  Romeo  and  Juliet  in  the  tomb  scene!" 
cried  Marianne.  "  Look,  mamma,  is  it  not  lovely? — the 
very  play  in  which  we  saw  Cooper  and  Mrs.  Merry. 
Oh!  do  let  me  paint  Romeo  and  Juliet  for  the  dinner  set! 
But  stop — here's  the  Shepherdess  of  the  Alps!  how  mag 
nificent!  I  think  I  would  rather  do  that  for  the  china. 
And  here's  Mary  Queen  of  Scots;  I  remember  her  ever 
since  I  read  history.  And  here  are  Telemachus  and  Mi 
nerva,  just  as  I  translated  about  them  in  my  Telemaque 
exercises.  Oh!  let  me  do  them  for  the  dinner  set — shan't 
I,  Mr.  Gummage?" 

"  I  don't  see  any  figure-pieces  in  which  the  colours  are 
bright  enough,"  remarked  Mrs.  Atmore. 

"As  to  that,"  observed  Gummage — who  knew  that 
the  burthen  of  the  drawing  would  eventually  fall  on  him, 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  243 

and  who  never  liked  to  do  figures — "  I  don't  believe  that 
any  of  these  figure  pieces  would  look  well  if  reduced  so 
small  as  to  go  on  china  plates." 

«  Well — here  are  some  very  fine  landscapes,"  pursued 
Mrs.  Atmore;  "  Here's  the  Cascade  of  Tivoli — and  here's 
a  view  in  Jamaica — and  here's  Glastonbury  Abbey." 

"Oh!  I  dote  on  abbeys,"  cried  Marianne,  "for  the 
sake  of  Amanda  Fitzalan." 

"  Your  papa  will  not  approve  of  your  doing  this,"  ob 
served  Mrs.  Atmore:  "you  know,  he  says  that  abbeys 
are  nothing  but  old  tumble-down  churches." 

"  If  I  may  not  do  an  abbey,  let  me  do  a  castle,"  said 
Marianne:  "  there's  Conway  Castle  by  moonlight — how 
natural  the  moon  looks!" 

"  As  to  castles,"  replied  Mrs.  Atmore,  "  you  know 
your  papa  says  they  are  no  better  than  old  jails.  He 
hates  both  abbeys  and  castles." 

«  Well,  here  is  a  noble  country  seat,"  said  Marianne 
— "'Chiswick  House,'" 

"  Your  papa  has  no  patience  with  country  seats,"  re 
joined  Mrs.  Atmore.  "  He  says  that  when  people  have 
made  their  money,  they  had  better  stay  in  town  to  enjoy 
it;  where  they  can  be  convenient  to  the  market,  and  the 
stores,  and  the  post  office,  and  the  coffee  house.  He  likes 
a  good  comfortable  three  story  brick  mansion,  in  a  cen 
tral  part  of  the  city,  with  marble  steps,  iron  railings,  and 
green  Venetian  shutters." 

"  To  cut  the  matter  short,"  said  Mr.  Gummage,  "  the 
best  thing  for  the  china  is  a  flower  piece — a  basket,  or  a 
wreath,  or  something  of  that  sort  You  can  have  a  good 
cypher  in  the  centre,  and  the  colours  may  be  as  bright 
as  you  please.  India  ware  is  generally  painted  with  one 
colour  only;  but  the  Chinese  are  submissive  animals,  and 
will  do  just  as  they  are  bid.  It  may  cost  something  more 


244  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

to  have  a  variety  of  colours;  but  I  suppose  you  will  not 
mind  that." 

"  Oh!  no — no,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Atmore.  "  1  shall  not 
care  for  the  price;  I  have  set  my  mind  on  having  this 
china  the  wonder  of  all  Philadelphia." 

Our  readers  will  understand,  that  at  this  period  nearly 
all  the  porcelain  used  in  America  was  of  Chinese  manu 
facture;  very  little  of  that  elegant  article  having  been,  as 
yet,  imported  from  France. 

A  wreath  was  selected  from  the  port  folio  that  con 
tained  the  engravings  and  drawings  of  flowers.  It  was 
decided  that  Marianne  should  first  execute  it  the  full  size 
of  the  model  (which  was  as  large  as  nature),  that  she 
might  immediately  have  a  piece  to  frame;  and  that  she 
was  afterwards  to  make  a  smaller  copy  of  it,  as  a  border 
for  all  the  articles  of  the  china  set;  the  middle  to  be  or 
namented  with  the  letter  A,  in  gold,  surrounded  by  the 
rays  of  a  golden  star.  Sprigs  and  tendrils  of  the  flowers 
were  to  branch  down  from  the  border,  so  as  nearly  to 
reach  the  gilding  in  the  middle.  The  large  wreath  that 
was  intended  to  frame,  was  to  bear  in  its  centre  the  ini 
tials  of  Marianne  Atmore,  being  the  letters  M.  A.,  paint 
ed  in  shell  gold. 

"And  so,"  said  Mr.  Gummage,  "having  a  piece  to 
frame,  and  a  pattern  for  your  china,  you'll  kill  two  birds 
with  one  stone." 

On  the  following  Monday,  the  young  lady  came  to 
take  her  first  lesson,  followed  by  a  mulatto  boy,  carry 
ing  a  little  black  morocco  trunk,  that  contained  a  four 
row  box  of  Reeves's  colours,  with  an  assortment  of  ca 
mel's  hair  pencils,  half  a  dozen  white  saucers,  a  water 
cup,  a  lead  pencil,  and  a  piece  of  India  rubber.  Mr. 
Gummage  immediately  supplied  her  with  two  bristle 
brushes,  and  sundry  little  shallow  earthen  cups,  each  con- 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  245 

taining  a  modicum  of  some  sort  of  body  colour,  masticot, 
flake  white,  &c.,  prepared  by  himself  and  charged  at  a 
quarter  of  a  dollar  a  piece,  and  which  he  told  her  she 
would  want  when  she  came  to  do  landscapes  and  figures. 
Mr.  Gummage's  style  was,  to  put  in  the  sky,  water, 
and  distances  with  opaque  paints,  and  the  most  prominent 
objects  with  transparent  colours.  This  was  probably 
the  reason  that  his  foregrounds  seemed  always  to  be  sunk 
in  his  backgrounds.  The  model  was  scarcely  considered 
as  a  guide,  for  he  continually  told  his  pupils  that  they 
must  try  to  excel  it;  and  he  helped  them  to  do  so  by 
making  all  his  skies  deep  red  fire  at  the  bottom,  and 
dark  blue  smoke  at  the  top;  and  exactly  reversing  the 
colours  on  the  water,  by  putting  red  at  the  top,  and 
blue  at  the  bottom.  The  distant  mountains  were  lilac 
and  white,  and  near  the  rocks  buff  colour,  shaded  with 
purple.  The  castles  and  abbeys  were  usually  gamboge. 
The  trees  were  dabbed  and  dotted  in  with  a  large  bristle 
brush,  so  that  the  foliage  looked  like  a  green  fog.  The 
foam  of  the  cascades  resembled  a  concourse  of  wigs,  scuf 
fling  together  and  knocking  the  powder  out  of  each  other, 
the  spray  being  always  fizzed  on  with  one  of  the  afore 
said  bristle  brushes.  All  the  dark  shadows  in  every  part 
of  the  picture  were  done  with  a  mixture  of  Prussian  blue 
and  bistre,  and  of  these  two  colours  there  was  consequent 
ly  a  vast  consumption  in  Mr.  Gummage's  school.  At 
the  period  of  ourstory,  many  of  the  best  houses  in  Phila 
delphia  were  decorated  with  these  landscapes.  But  for 
the  honour  of  my  towns-people,  I  must  say  that  the  taste 
for  such  productions  is  now  entirely  obsolete.  We  may 
look  forward  to  the  time,  which  we  trust  is  not  far  dis 
tant,  when  the  elements  of  drawing  will  be  taught  in 
every  school,  and  considered  as  indispensable  to  educa 
tion  as  a  knowledge  of  writing.  It  has  long  been  our 

21* 


246  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

belief  that  any  child  may,  with  proper  instruction,  be 
made  to  draw,  as  easily  as  any  child  may  be  made  to 
write.  We  are  rejoiced  to  find  that  so  distinguished  an 
artist  as  Rembrandt  Peale  has  avowed  the  same  opinion, 
in  giving  to  the  world  his  invaluable  little  work  on 
Graphics:  in  which  he  has  clearly  demonstrated  the  affin 
ity  between  drawing  and  writing,  and  admirably  exempli 
fied  the  leading  principles  of  both. 

Marianne's  first  attempt  at  the  great  wreath  was  awk 
ward  enough.  After  she  had  spent  five  or  six  afternoons 
at  the  outline,  and  made  it  triangular  rather  than  circular, 
and  found  it  impossible  to  get  in  the  sweet  pea,  and  the 
convolvolus,  and  lost  and  bewildered  herself  among  the 
multitude  of  leaves  that  formed  the  cup  of  the  rose,  Mr. 
Gummage  snatched  the  pencil  from  her  hand,  rubbed  out 
the  whole,  and  then  drew  it  himself.  It  must  be  confessed 
that  his  forte  lay  in  flowers,  and  he  was  extremely  clever 
at  them,  "  but,"  as  he  expressed  it,  "  his  scholars  chiefly 
ran  upon  landscapes." 

After  he  had  sketched  the  wreath,  he  directed  Mari 
anne  to  rub  the  colours  for  her  flowers,  while  he  put 
in  Miss  Smithson's  rocks. 

When  Marianne  had  covered  all  her  saucers  with  co 
lours,  and  wasted  ten  times  as  much  as  was  necessary, 
she  was  eager  to  commence  painting,  as  she  called  it;  and 
in  trying  to  wash  the  rose  with  lake,  she  daubed  it  on  of 
crimson  thickness.  When  Mr.  Gummage  saw  it,  he  gave 
her  a  severe  reprimand  for  meddling  with  her  own  piece. 
It  was  with  great  difficulty  that  the  superabundant  colour 
was  removed ;  and  he  charged  her  to  let  the  flowers  alone 
till  he  was  ready  to  wash  them  for  her.  He  worked  a 
little  at  the  piece  every  day,  forbidding  Marianne  to  touch 
it:  and  she  remained  idle  while  he  was  putting  in  skies, 
mountains,  &c.,  for  the  other  young  ladies. 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  247 

At  length  the  wreath  was  finished — Mr.  Gummage 
having  only  sketched  it,  and  washed  it,  and  given  it  the 
last  touches.  It  was  put  into  a  splendid  frame,  and  shown 
as  Miss  Marianne  Atmore's  first  attempt  at  painting:  and 
every  body  exclaimed  "  What  an  excellent  teacher  Mr. 
Gummage  must  be!  How  fast  he  brings  on  his  pupils!" 

In  the  mean  time,  she  undertook  at  home  to  make  the 
small  copy  that  was  to  go  to  China.  But  she  was  now 
"  at  a  dead  lock/'  and  found  it  utterly  impossible  to  ad 
vance  a  step  without  Mr.  Gummage.  It  was  then  thought 
best  that  she  should  do  it  at  school — meaning  that  Mr. 
Gummage  should  do  it  for  her,  while  she  looked  out  of 
the  window. 

The  whole  was  at  last  satisfactorily  accomplished,  even 
to  the  gilt  star,  with  the  A  in  the  centre.  It  was  taken 
home  and  compared  with  the  larger  wreath,  and  found 
still  prettier,  and  shown  as  Marianne's  to  the  envy  of  all 
mothers  whose  daughters  could  not  furnish  models  for 
china.  It  was  finally  given  in  charge  to  the  captain  of 
the  Voltaire,  with  injunctions  to  order  a  dinner-set  ex 
actly  according  to  the  pattern — and  to  prevent  the  possi 
bility  of  a  mistake,  a  written  direction  accompanied  it. 

The  ship  sailed — and  Marianne  continued  three  quar 
ters  at  Mr.  Gummage's  school,  where  she  nominally  ef 
fected  another  flower  piece,  and  also  perpetrated  Kemble 
in  Rolla,  Edwin  and  Angelina,  the  Falls  of  Schuylkill, 
and  the  Falls  of  Niagara;  all  of  which  were  duly  framed, 
and  hung  in  their  appointed  places. 

During  tbe  year  that  followed  the  departure  of  the 
ship  Voltaire,  great  impatience  for  her  return  was  mani 
fested  by  the  ladies  of  the  Atmore  family — anxious  to 
see  how  the  china  would  look,  and  frequently  hoping  that 
the  colours  would  be  bright  enough,  and  none  of  the 
flowers  omitted — that  the  gilding  would  be  rich,  and 


248  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

every  thing  inserted  in  its  proper  place,  exactly  accord 
ing  to  the  pattern.  Mrs.  Atmore's  only  regret  was,  that 
she  had  not  sent  for  a  tea-set  also;  not  that  she  was  in 
want  of  one,  but  then  it  would  be  so  much  better  to  have 
a  dinner-set  and  a  tea-set  precisely  alike,  and  Marianne's 
beautiful  wreath  on  all. 

"Why,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Atmore,  "how  often  have 
I  heard  you  say  that  you  would  never  have  another  tea- 
set  from  Canton,  because  the  Chinese  persist  in  making 
the  principal  articles  of  such  old  fashioned,  awkward 
shapes.  For  my  part,  I  always  disliked  the  tall  coffee 
pots,  with  their  strait  spouts,  looking  like  light-houses 
with  bowsprits  to  them;  and  the  short,  clumsy  tea-pots, 
with  their  twisted  handles,  and  lids  that  always  fall  off." 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Atmore, "  I  have  been  look 
ing  forward  to  the  time  when  we  can  get  a  French  tea- 
set  upon  tolerable  terms.  But  in  the  mean  while  I  should 
be  very  glad  to  have  cups  and  saucers  with  Marianne's 
beautiful  wreath,  and  of  course  when  we  use  them  on  the 
table  we  should  always  bring  forward  oar  silver  pots." 

Spring  returned,  and  there  was  much  watching  of  the 
vanes,  and  great  joy  when  they  pointed  easterly,  and  the 
ship-news  now  became  the  most  interesting  column  of 
the  papers.  A  vessel  that  had  sailed  from  New  York 
for  Canton  on  the  same  day  the  Voltaire  departed  from 
Philadelphia,  had  already  got  in;  therefore  the  Voltaire 
might  be  hourly  expected.  At  length  she  was  reported 
below;  and  at  this  period  the  river  Delaware  suffered 
much,  in  comparison  with  the  river  Hudson,  owing  to 
the  tediousness  of  its  navigation  from  the  capes  to  the 
city. 

At  last  the  Voltaire  cast  anchor  at  the  foot  of  Market 
street,  and  our  ladies  could  scarcely  refrain  from  walking 
down  to  the  wharf  to  see  the  ship  that  held  the  box  that 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  249 

held  the  china.  But  invitations  were  immediately  sent 
out  for  a  long  projected  dinner-party,  which  Mrs.  At- 
more  had  persuaded  her  husband  to  defer  till  they  could 
exhibit  the  beautiful  new  porcelain. 

The  box  was  landed,  and  conveyed  to  the  house.  The 
whole  family  were  present  at  the  opening,  which  was 
performed  in  the  dining  room  by  Mr.  Atmore  himself 
— all  the  servants  peeping  in  at  the  door.  As  soon  as  a 
part  of  the  lid  was  split  off,  and  a  handful  of  straw  re 
moved,  a  pile  of  plates  appeared,  all  separately  wrapped 
in  India  paper.  Each  of  the  family  snatched  up  a  plate 
and  hastly  tore  off  the  covering.  There  were  the  flowers 
glowing  in  beautiful  colours,  and  the  gold  star  and  the 
gold  A,  admirably  executed.  But  under  the  gold  star, 
on  every  plate,  dish,  and  tureen,  were  the  words,  "  THIS 
IN  THE  MIDDLE!" — being  the  direction  which  the  literal 
and  exact  Chinese  had  minutely  copied  from  a  crooked 
line  that  Mr.  Atmore  had  hastily  scrawled  on  the  pattern 
with  a  very  bad  pen,  and  of  course  without  the  slightest 
fear  of  its  being  inserted  verbatim  beneath  the  central 
ornament. 

Mr.  Atmore  laughed — Mrs.  Atmore  cried — the  ser 
vants  giggled  aloud — and  Marianne  cried  first,  and 
laughed  afterwards. 


250  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 


BY  JOHN  D.  GODMAN, 


'Tis  midnight's  solemn  hour !  now  wide  unfurled 
Darkness  expands  her  mantle  o'er  the  world : 
The  fire-fly's  lamp  has  ceased  its  fitful  gleam, 
The  cricket's  chirp  is  hushed;  the  boding  scream 
Of  the  gray  owl  is  stilled ;  the  lofty  trees 
Scarce  wave  their  summits  to  the  failing  breeze  ; 
All  nature  is  at  rest,  or  seems  to  sleep ; 
'Tis  thine  alone,  oh  man  !  to  watch  and  weep ! 
Thine  His  to  feel  thy  system's  sad  decay, 
As  flares  the  taper  of  thy  life  away , 
Beneath  the  influence  of  fell  disease  : — 
Thine  'tis  to  know  the  want  of  mental  ease 
Springing  from  memory  of  time  misspent ; 
Of  slighted  blessings;  deepest  discontent, 
And  riotous  rebellion  'gainst  the  laws 
Of  health,  truth,  heaven,  to  win  the  world's  applause! 
— See  where  the  waning  moon 
Slowly  surmounts  yon  dark  tree  tops, 
Her  light  increases  steadily,  and  soon 
The  solemn  night  her  stole  of  darkness  drops: 
Thus  to  my  sinking  soul  in  hours  of  gloom 
The  cheering  beams  of  hope  resplendent  come, 
Thus  the  thick  clouds  which  sin  and  sorrow  rear 
Are  changed  to  brightness,  or  swift  disappear. 
Hark!  that  shrill  note  proclaims  approaching  day; 
The  distant  east  is  streaked  with  lines  of  gray; 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  251 

Faint  warblings  from  the  neighbouring  groves  arise, 
The  tuneful  tribes  salute  the  brightening  skies. 
Peace  breathes  around;  dim  visions  o'er  me  creep, 
The  weary  night  outwatched,  thank  God !  I  too  may 


252  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 


BY  R.  M.  WALSH. 


THE  details  of  the  career  of  this  remarkable  man  must 
be  so  familiar  as  to  render  it  a  work  of  supererogation  to 
record  them.  His  humble  birth,  in  an  obscure  settlement, 
where  civilisation  had  advanced  scarcely  farther  than  the 
threshold  ;  the  singular  precocity  of  his  imitative  talent; 
the  irresistible  strength  of  his  vocation,  which  overcame 
every  impediment,  even  the  uncompromising  spirit  of 
sectarian  prejudice ;  the  kind  friends  whom  he  was  so 
fortunate  as  to  encounter,  who  fostered  his  genius  and 
contributed  the  means  of  enabling  him  to  cultivate  it  to 
the  utmost  in  the  richest  school  of  art ;  the  sensation 
which  he  excited  in  Italy,  both  by  the  anomaly  at  that 
period  of  a  young  American's  repairing  thither  to  ac 
quire  excellence  with  the  pencil,  and  the  merit  of  the 
works  which  he  produced;  his  subsequent  success  in  Eng 
land,  where  he  elevated  himself  to  a  friendly  commu 
nion  with  royalty,  and  what  was  a  far  more  honourable 
testimony  to  his  character,  was  raised  by  his  fellow-art 
ists  to  the  loftiest  station  amongst  them,  the  Presidential 
chair  of  their  Academy,  and  where  he  died,  full  of  hon 
ours  and  of  years — all  this  might  almost  be  called  one  of 
our  school-boy  lessons,  so  proud  do  we  naturally  and  pro 
perly  feel  that  our  Temple  of  Fame  should  so  soon  have 
had  one  of  its  most  eminent  niches  filled  in  a  department 
which,  in  the  progress  of  other  nations,  has  generally 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  253 

been  long  unoccupied;  and  so  inspiriting  is  the  lesson 
which  it  inculcates,  of  the  admirable  results  of  industry 
and  virtue  and  perseverance,  no  matter  what  the  obstacles 
through  which  they  may  be  obliged  to  force  their  way. 

The  merits  of  West  seem  to  us  to  be  better  calculated 
to  attract  the  artist  than  the  mere  amateur.   In  the  excel, 
lence  of  his  composition  and  the  correctness  of  his  design, 
there  is  much  that  the  former  must  love  to  contemplate, 
for  purposes  both  of  gratification  and  instruction;  but  ad 
mirable  as  those  qualities  are,  they  cannot  be  duly  appre 
ciated  and  enjoyed  by  the  unscientific,  when  not  befriend 
ed  in  just  proportion  by  one  or  another  of  the  two  requi 
sites  most  essential  for  communicating  general  delight,  in 
which  he  was  deficient — expression  and  colouring.     He 
neither  enthrals  the  mind,  nor  fascinates  the  eye.     His  is 
not  the  magic  pencil  around  which  the  passions  throng, 
nor  that  which  is  dipped  in  the  hues  of  the  rainbow.     He 
rarely  if  ever  "  gloriously  offends,"  or  snatches  a  grace 
which  uninspired  art  may  not  reach.     Soul  is  wanting 
there,  and  the  most  attractive  quality,  upon  canvass,  of 
body  likewise.     Take,  for  instance,  his  celebrated  work 
belonging  to  the  Hospital  of  Philadelphia,  Christ  healing 
the  Sick,  and  what  are  the  effects  which  it  is  fitted  to  pro 
duce  ?     It  is  doubtless  skilfully  and  judiciously  compo 
sed,  and  the  figures  are  well  drawn,  but  is  not  your  eye 
immediately  repelled  by  the  want  of  morbidezza  in  the 
tone,  by  the  hardness  of  the  outlines,  exhibiting  the  work 
of  the  pencil  as  distinctly  as  that  of  the  brush,  and  des 
troying  all  illusion  by  the  evidence  thus  afforded,  that 
the  personages  before  you  were  born  not  of  women,  but 
of  the  artist's  hand,  and  by  the  absence  of  that  genial 
glow  of  complexion  which  seems  to  indicate  the  active 
current  of  the  life-streams  beneath  ?     Is  one  inspiring 
22 


254  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

idea  excited  in  your  mind,  one  powerful  emotion  awak 
ened  in  your  bosom,  by  the  sublimity  and  pathos  of  the 
subject?  Does  the  head  of  the  Saviour  prompt  you  to 
adoration,  and  gratitude,  and  love  ?  do  you  commiserate 
the  sufferings  of  the  sick  man,  or  rejoice  in  the  release 
which  he  is  about  to  obtain  ?  do  you  sympathise  with  the 
distress  of  the  mother,  desiring  yourself  to  wipe  away 
that  tear  which  seems  not  to  have  dropped  from  her  eye, 
but  to  have  been  placed  on  her  cheek  for  the  occasion  ? 
do  you  second  the  father's  prayer  for  his  daughter's  res 
toration  to  sight  ?  or  are  you  horrified  by  the  malignant 
hatred  and  covert  rage  of  the  priests,  or  shocked  by  the 
contortions  of  the  demoniac  boy  ?  Imagine  the  same 
scene  depicted  by  Raphael.  What  dignity  inspiring  ho 
mage,  what  compassion  inducing  love,  would  have  been 
blended  in  the  person  of  the  Redeemer — what  strength 
and  diversity  of  sentiment  would  have  been  imparted  to 
the  apostles,  the  disciples,  the  priests,  and  the  gazing 
crowd — what  depth  of  parental  and  filial  love,  illumined 
by  hope  and  yet  tempered  by  awe,  would  have  been  im 
pressed  upon  the  countenances  of  those  soliciting  his 
mercy  for  their  afflicted  kindred — what  commingling  of 
physical  infirmity  with  moral  elevation  would  have  been 
portrayed  in  the  expectants  of  divine  bounty — how  viv 
idly  would  the  whole  spectacle  have  spoken  of  helpless 
humanity  and  celestial  power  and  goodness  !  The  group 
of  which  the  demoniac  boy  is  the  chief  figure,  is  a  strong 
reminiscence  of  the  one  of  the  same  nature  in  the  Trans 
figuration;  the  woman  looking  at  the  Saviour  and  point 
ing  to  the  possessed  behind  her,  is  almost  a  copy  ;  but 
what  a  difference  between  her  unmeaning,  and  we  must 
say,  rather  vulgar  physiognomy,  and  the  striking  coun 
tenance  of  Raphael's  creation,  so  admirably  contrasted 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  255 

with  that  heavenly  face  of  the  other  female,  who  is  look 
ing  upon  the  poor  boy  with  such  indescribable  feeling! 

In  making  these  remarks,  we  must  be  understood  as 
speaking  relatively.  We  are  far  from  asserting  that  the 
picture  is  altogether  devoid  of  expression.  It  affords 
abundant  evidence  that  the  author  knew  what  ought  to  be 
done.  Every  one  of  the  figures  indicates  the  right  in 
tention^  but  in  none  of  them  is  the  deed  as  good  as  the 
will.  The  impression  which  they  are  designed  to  pro 
duce  is  true,  as  far  as  it  goes,  but  it  is  weak  at  the  mo 
ment  of  reception,  and  liable  soon  to  be  effaced. — It  is  but 
just  also  to*  acknowledge,  that  although  the  colouring  of 
West  is  usually  defective,  instances  could  be  shown  in 
some  of  his  works  of  an  excellence  in  that  respect,  which 
might  be  deemed  worthy  of  Titian. 

«  Death  on  the  Pale  Horse,"  is  esteemed  the  loftiest 
effort  of  West,  and  it  must  indeed  be  a  noble  production, 
in  which  he  has  surpassed  himself,  if  what  is  said  of  it 
be  true.  In  it,  according  to  Cunningham,  he  has  jnore 
than  approached  the  masters  and  princes  of  the  calling. 
The  Battle  of  La  Hogue,  and  the  Death  of  Wolfe,  are 
the  best  of  his  historic  pieces,  and  esteemed  the  best  of 
that  kind  of  the  English  school,  which,  however,  they 
might  easily  be,  without  possessing  half  their  merit. 

In  estimating  the  rank  of  West,  it  should  be  recollect 
ed,  that  although  he  is  not  the  first  in  his  department  of 
the  art,  that  department  is  the  first;  and  that  to  attain  the 
distinction  in  it  which  he  did,  a  rarer  combination  of  qua 
lities  was  requisite,  than  is  demanded  for  superiority  in 
an  inferior  branch.  The  vast  number  of  his  composi 
tions,  also,  almost  all  of  which  are  at  least  respectable, 
should  be  taken  into  consideration,  manifesting  as  they 
do,  a  wonderful  fertility  of  invention  and  rapidity  of  ex- 


256  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

ecution.  One  circumstance  should  be  recorded  to  his 
lasting  honour,  that  he  never  prostituted  his  pencil  to  a 
subject  on  which  the  most  delicate  mind  could  not  dwell, 
which  could  have  been  a  source  of  the  smallest  regret 
upon  his  bed  of  death. 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  257 


BV  ALEXANDER  WILSON. 


When  morning  dawns,  and  the  blest  sun  again 
Lifts  his  red  glories  from  the  Eastern  main, 
Then  through  our  woodbines,  wet  with  glittering  dews, 
The  flower-fed  humming-bird  his  round  pursues, 
Sips  with  inserted  tube,  the  honeyed  blooms, 
And  chirps  his  gratitude  as  round  he  roams! 
While  richest  roses,  though  in  crimson  drest, 
Shrink  from  the  splendour  of  his  gorgeous  breast; 
What  heavenly  tints  in  mingling  radiance  fly! 
Each  rapid  movement  gives  a  different  dye; 
Like  scales  of  burnished  gold  the  dazzling  slow, 
Now  sunk  to  shade,  now  like  a  furnace  glow! 


258  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 


©  IE  A.  IF  ©  HI  "ffo 


BY  G.   M.  WHARTON. 


IF  there  be  one  attribute  of  man,  which,  more  than  any 
other,  establishes  the  supremacy  of  his  nature,  it  is  that 
of  oratory.  The  pleasures  of  sight,  however  varied  or 
enticing  ;  all  the  illusions  of  the  eye;  even  the  enchant 
ing  strains  of  music  ;  are  feeble  in  their  effects  upon  the 
imagination,  compared  to  the  soul-inspiring,  spirit-stir 
ring  emanations  of  "  eloquence  divine."  The  first  are 
but  the  impressions  of  the  external  world — the  next, 
however  imposing  or  delightful,  convey  no  stamp  of  in 
tellect  ;  but  the  latter  mark  triumphantly  the  mind  with 
in.  It  is  the  better  part  of  man — his  spirit — gleaming 
through  his  clay,  and  attesting  his  claim  to  something 
higher  than  a  material  world.  Eloquence  is  the  mighti 
est  engine  with  which  man  can  act  upon  his  fellow — its 
effects,  whether  for  good  or  ill,  have  been  attested  from 
the  fearful  moment  when  the  seductive  tongue  of  the 
"  arch-enemy''  darkened  the  fortunes  of  our  first  pa 
rents;  and  the  glorious  results  of  its  impassioned  voice, 
when  exerted  in  the  cause  of  the  violated  rights  of  our 
race,  stand  prominent  on  the  page  of  history.  We  have 
almost  all  felt,  and  some  of  us  have  beheld  it,  in  the  sup 
pressed  breath,  the  heaving  chest,  the  lightning  of  the 
eye.  The  history  of  eloquence  (we  refer  now  to  the 
theatre  for  its  display),  is  a  subject  of  the  deepest  inter 
est.  From  the  rude  eloquence  of  the  savage — man 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  259 

speaking  to  man  with  the  voice  of  pure  and  unaffected 
nature,  and  rich  with  her  imagery — to  the  debates  of  po 
pular  assemblies  among  nations  we  have  been  accustom 
ed  to  venerate  as  classical,  and  yet,  in  many  respects, 
rude  ;  upward  to  the  contests  of  argument,  wit,  refine 
ment,  and  passion,  which  have  graced  the  deliberative  as 
semblies  of  Britain  and  our  own  country — every  step  in 
the  progress  teems  with  instruction  and  interest.  We 
behold  in  such  a  picture  the  advance  of  mind — the  play 
and  the  strife  of  the  intellect.  It  is  a  field  eminently 
free  for  talent  to  put  forth  her  strength — unaided  by  fac 
titious  importance — unimpeded  by  the  cobwebs  of  fash 
ion.  Native  genius  at  once  assumes  her  propor  rank  ; 
she  wields  a  weapon,  against  which  no  armour  yields  pro 
tection,  and  from  which  no  subtlety  can  escape.  If 
there  be  a  spectacle  in  this  world  more  imposing  than 
another,  it  is  the  victory  of  talent  in  a  contest  with  which 
physical  power  is  entirely  disconnected,  and  where  the 
forces  and  the  arms  are  wholly  intellectual. 

With  some  splendid  exceptions  of  individual  efforts, 
even  national  partiality  must  admit,  that  the  British  Par 
liament  has  been  the  body  the  most  graced  by  oratorical 
display.  For  a  long  series  of  years,  the  halls  of  St.  Ste 
phen's  have  resounded  with  the  voice  of  eloquence.  It 
has  been  a  great  arena,  where  the  wit,  the  sarcasm,  and 
the  feeling  of  the  British  nation  have  contended  for  su 
periority.  It  has  been  a  mighty  school,  where  the  youth 
ful  talents  for  debate  of  her  aspiring  citizens  have  been 
developed  and  disciplined  ;  where  proud  presumption 
has  been  humbled  ;  and  overweening  arrogance  taught  a 
useful  lesson  :  and  where,  in  fine,  hearty  and  unfeigned 
applause  has  ever  been  bestowed  upon  successful  exertion. 
British  oratory  would  seem  to  have  attained  the  utmost 
height  to  which  eloquence  can  reach  :  polished,  nervous, 


260  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

witty,  sensible,  yet  impassioned.  The  eloquence  of  sav 
age  nations  is  too  metaphorical  to  please  a  chastened  ear. 
We  meet  in  it  with  much  that  charms  us  by  its  ingenu 
ousness  and  simplicity,  and  engages  our  attention  by  the 
striking  truth  of  its  comparisons — but  its  images  are  all 
material,  derived  from  the  external  world  :  we  of  course 
look  in  vain  for  the  logic  of  argument  or  the  reflections 
of  philosophy.  It  may  be  considered  a  literary  heresy 
to  breathe  aught  against  the  supremacy  of  Grecian  and 
Roman  eloquence ;  but  it  would  seem  to  us,  that  the  hu 
man  mind  has  profited  little  by  extended  civilisation  and 
Christian  knowledge,  if  their  influence  has  not  raised  the 
character  of  human  eloquence — if  men's  views  have  not 
been  enlarged  as  their  information  has  expanded — and  if 
this  improvement  were  not  visible  in  their  mental  exer 
cises.  Again  ;  but  two  great  names  present  themselves 
among  the  orators  of  the  illustrious  people  we  have  men 
tioned  :  blot  out  the  memories  of  Demosthenes  and  Ci 
cero,  and  Grecian  or  Roman  eloquence  would  not  be 
mentioned  in  connection  with  their  music,  their  statuary, 
their  painting,  their  architecture,  and  their  poetry.  On 
the  contrary,  in  modern  Europe,  we  can  point  to  a  splen 
did  galaxy,  who  have  exhausted  in  every  department  of 
oratorical  effort,  the  brightest  intellectual  endowments. 

Let  us  not  be  supposed  to  underrate  the  eloquence  of 
our  own  country,  or  to  deny  that  a  field,  even  fairer 
(because  more  extended)  than  England  affords,  is  not 
opened  to  our  own  citizens.  A  word  upon  this  subject 
may  not  be  out  of  place  here. 

The  condition  and  circumstances  of  our  land,  natural 
and  political,  are  well  known,  and  therefore  need  not  be 
dwelt  upon  here.  But  we  are  not  aware  that  they  have 
been  noticed  in  connection  with  her  eloquence.  Here, 
the  climate,  the  soil,  and  the  character  of  the  people  are 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  261 

favourable  to  rapid,  precocious,  and  vigorous  growth  of 
natural  and  intellectual  products.  Plants  shoot  up  to  an 
enormous  size — population  swells  in  an  unexampled  de 
gree — magnitude  is  a  feature  of  the  country;  and  the  same 
may  be  said  of  the  speeches  of  the  people.  The  length 
of  American  orations  is  their  primary  characteristic  :  it 
is  so  obvious  a  mark,  and  one  so  much  of  the  essence  of 
an  harangue,  that  it  cannot  escape  notice.  It  is  in  some 
measure  the  evidence  of  want  of  due  precision  of  idea 
and  expression,  and  certainly  of  an  uncorrected  taste. 
It  is  the  sign  of  an  exuberance  of  ideas,  which  would  be 
pruned  by  careful  preparation  and  education,  that  would 
suggest  the  propriety  of  not  starting  in  every  discussion 
ab  ovo,  and  of  presuming  the  previous  knowledge  of  cer 
tain  first  principles.  The  remark  is  of  equal  force  and  truth, 
when  applied  to  legal  arguments,  judicial  opinions,  legis 
lative,  literary  or  popular  discourses.  Of  all  and  each  it 
may  be  said,  "  they  drag  their  slow  length  along." 


262  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 


8  S1  A  3S5T  &  £,  8  o 

BY  I.  C.  SNOWDEN. 

LIFE  is  a  faithless  ocean  ! 

Upon  its  tide  awhile, 

Our  way  is  cheer' d  by  flattering  gales, 

And  summer's  gentle  smile : 

O,  could  it  thus  for  ever  be, 

Our  course  were  gladly  run  ; 

Nor  had  my  tears  been  shed  for  thee, 

Thus  early  lost,  my  son ! 

Few  saw,  or  seeing  knew  thee, 

My  bright  and  beauteous  boy  ! 

The  world — how  little  doth  it  heed 

A  parent's  grief  or  joy  ! 

We  mourn  thee,  dear  one,  we  alone — 

Our  woe  shall  sacred  be ; 

The  cold  applause  from  others  won, 

We  will  not  ask  for  thee. 

Thy  form  of  passing  beauty 

I  see  before  me  now, 

The  conscious  look,  the  manly  air 

That  graced  thy  lofty  brow  ; 

I  saw  in  these,  or  deem'd  I  saw 

The  germ  of  noble  things, 

But  now  the  thought  exalts  my  pain — 

A  keener  anguish  brings. 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  263 

'Twas  not  when  thou  wast  dying, 

I  felt  the  weight  of  woe  , 

Nor  when,  with  solemn  step  and  rite, 

We  placed  thy  limbs  below ; 

It  was  the  fearful  moment,  when, 

With  prescience  sadly  true, 

I  first  the  dreaded  day  beheld 

In  the  dim  distant  view : 

It  came — the  hour  of  parting  ! 

0  God  !  and  must  we  part ! 

1  gazed  upon  his  fading  face, 
And  press'd  him  to  my  heart : 

And  she  was  there,  whose  constant  watch 
Was  kept  his  couch  above, 
Whose  wasted  form  and  sunken  eye 
Told  of  a  mother's  love. 

Why  should  the  tie  be  sever'd 

It  were  so  meet  should  last  ? 

Why  should  our  hopes  so  fairly  bloom, 

To  wither  in  the  blast  ? 

For  thou  wast  all  my  wishes  crav'd, 

Joy  of  her  heart  and  mine, 

And  all  a  parent's  love  could  do 

Was  surely  done  by  thine. 

Beyond  life's  troubled  ocean, 
Thine  is  a  better  sphere, 
And  'tis  a  soothing  thought,  to  feel 
We  made  thee  happy  here. 
Beautiful  Infant !  doubly  blest  ? 
Two  worlds  'twas  thine  to  gain, 
One  that  is  far  beyond  all  grief, 
And  this  without  its  pain. 


264  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 


BY  DR.  R.  M.  BIRD. 


MASTLESS,  helmless,  gaping  at  every  seam,  and  groan 
ing  and  crashing  at  every  pitch  over  the  rolling  surges, 
yet  supported  above  the  water  by  the  buoyancy  of  the 
cargo,  our  miserable  pbark  still  struggled  with  the  tem 
pest.  Sailors  without  further  duty,  and  passengers  with 
out  further  hope,  were  seen  in  various  parts  lashing 
themselves  to  the  rigging,  and  commending  their  souls  to 
heaven. 

It  is  always  awful  to  die  ;  but  when  perishing  in  the 
unvisited  solitudes  of  the*  deep,  while  the  heavens  and 
the  seas  are  at  war  with  each  other,  and  nature  herself 
seems  to  encourage  the  anarchy  of  her  elements,  awe  is 
swallowed  up  in  a  more  subduing  horror.  It  was  night, 
too,  and  there  was  a  moon  in  the  sky,  but  a  moon  that 

Wandered  darkling  in  the  eternal  space  — 

covered  and  concealed  by  massy  volumes  of  vapour, 
which,  except  when  shooting  forth  sheets  of  living 
flame,  enveloped  the  great  abyss  with  impenetrable 
darkness. 

The  uproar  of  the  tempest  was  such  as  may  be  recall 
ed  by  those  who  have  witnessed  similar  scenes.  Thun 
der  that  crashed,  and  rattled,  and  yelled  through  the  fir 
mament  ;  winds  that  howled  and  whistled  through  the 


THE  PHILADELPHIA    BOOK.  265 

bleak  air  ;  and  billows  that  put  forth  their  voices  in  a 
hoarse,   harsh  roar — made  up  the  music  of  the  tempest. 

A  sudden  dying  away  of  the  wind,  and  an  unaccount 
able  tranquillity — a  comparative  tranquillity  of  the  waters, 
filled  our  souls  with  transport ;  and  many  of  us  were  ex 
pressing  our  joy  with  loud  shouts  and  congratulations, 
when  a  voice,  deep  and  hoarse,  but  thrillingly  distinct, 
exclaimed  among  us — "The  ice  islands  !" 

"  The  ice  islands!  It  is  not  so  :  it  cannot  be,"  re 
plied  a  dozen  trembling  voices  ;  "  It  cannot  be  the  ice 
islands!" 

"  It  is,  it  is,"  replied  the  same  hoarse,  deep  voice ; 
«  and  God  have  mercy  on  us  all!" 

A  flash  of  lightning,  bright  and  universal,  as  if  the 
whole  sky  were  for  an  instant  in  a  conflagration,  reveal 
ed  our  situation  to  us.  Masses  of  ice — the  same  that  we 
had,  in  the  evening,  gazed  upon  with  such  pleasure  and 
admiration  stretched  about  us  to  the  northwest,  rolling 
and  rocking  in  the  waves  ;  and  near  to  us,  very  near  to 
us,  towered  a  vast  and  tremendous  bulk,  like  some  gigan 
tic  mountain,  with  its  citadels  and  towers,  undermined 
and  sent  drifting  about  in  the  shoreless  seas.  The  flash 
was  but  momentary,  yet  it  was  sufficient  to  fill  us  with 
horror  :  and  even  after  complete  darkness  had  been  re 
stored  the  dashing  of  the  billows  over  these  floating  des 
olations,  heard  above  the  general  roar  of  the  tempest  j 
the  grinding  and  crashing  of  the  fragments,  as  they  struck 
against  each  other  with  a  violence,  which,  on  the  solid 
land,  would  have  caused  a  shock  like  an  earthquake;  con 
tinued  and  aggravated  our  apprehension  into  a  wild,  un 
governable  horror,  little  short  of  madness. 

"We  are  under  its  lee  ! — It  is  upon  us  !"  shouted  a 
voice  that  rang  like  the  peal  of  a  trumpet  in  our  ears  ; 
and  at  the  same  instant  another  bright  and  wide  spread 
23 


266  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

flash  discovered  the  tremendous  object  moving  swiftly 
towards  us.  As  if  to  increase  the  horrors  of  the  scene, 
by  blasting  our  eyes  with  continued  sight  of  it,  the  moon, 
like  a  wan  and  haggard  ghost,  at  the  same  time  burst 
through  the  clouds  ;  and  although  the  horizon  around, 
on  all  quarters,  still  remained  in  frightful  gloom,  a  cir 
cumscribed  central  spot,  embracing  within  its  limits  the 
terrific  island  and  the  devoted  vessel,  now  lay  in  a  state 
of  vivid  illumination.  There  came  the  mighty  desola 
tion,  its  grand  cathedral-like  summits  reflecting  and  re 
fracting  the  lunar  rays  in  many  a  wild  and  fantastic  spec 
trum,  and  nodding  to  the  force  of  the  billows  that  drove 
it  onwards. 

I  possess  but  little  of  that  philosophic  indifference  of 
death  which  is  found  in  some  men  :  my  fears  distracted 
me.  I  remember  nothing  of  the  catastrophe  but  a  loud, 
clamorous  shock  ;  a  sinking  of  the  broken  deck ;  a 
whirling  of  the  watery  chaos  ;  a  wild  and  congregated 
shriek,  so  piercing,  so  horrible,  that  even  the  savage 
waves  seemed  to  restrain  their  fury  for  an  instant,  to 
listen  ;  and  then  I  sank  insensible  among  the  waters. 

1  awoke  as  from  a  painful  and  horrid  dream,  disturb 
ed  by  something  striking  with  repeated  blows  upon  the 
back  of  my  head — I  lay  on  my  face — and  turning  slug 
gishly  round,  I  was  startled  by  the  rushing  of  wings. 
An  albatross,  or  sea-eagle,  or  some  fowl  of  the  deep, 
darted  with  shrill  cries  before  my  visipn.  I  put  my 
hand  to  my  head  ;  it  was  bleeding  and  mangled.  My 
limbs  were  stiff  and  sore,  and  in  many  places  severely 
lacerated. 

I  rose,  and  found  myself  in  a  hollow  or  cavern  of  the 
ice,  the  bottom  of  which  was  filled  with  fissures,  under 
neath  which  I  could  hear  the  rumbling  and  dashing  of 
waves ;  and  fearing  lest  this  frail  floor,  should  give  way, 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  267 

and  precipitate  me  again  into  the  abyss  from  which  I  had 
so  providentially  and  mysteriously  escaped,  I  crawled  to 
the  entrance  of  the  cavern. 

The  sun  was  up  ;  the  waves  were  at  rest,  or  rather 
were  rolling  onward  with  a  regular  and  sluggish  motion, 
scarcely  sufficient  to  disturb  the  equilibrium  of  my  icy 
float.  Other  ice  bergs  were  seen  at  a  distance,  shining 
like  fire  in  the  sunbeams. 

Where  were  my  companions  ?  I  shouted  aloud:  nothing 
answered  me  :  the  silence  of  death  was  on  my  island. 

A  harsh  scream  struck  my  ear.  A  bird  of  prey  was 
hovering  in  the  air  a  rod  or  two  from  me,  and  occasion 
ally  darting  swiftly  into  a  hollow  of  the  ice,  from  which 
it  issued  again  with  wild  cries.  I  approached  the  spot. 
Before  me  lay  the  corse  of  a  young  man,  whose  good 
humour  and  mirth  had  often,  in  dull  and  weary  hours, 
enlivened  the  spirits  of  his  fellow  voyagers.  Although 
his  body  was  dreadfully  mangled,  and  his  face  contorted 
and  in  some  measure  mutilated  by  the  voracious  fowl, 
I  soon  recognised  him,  and  for  a  moment  endeavoured 
to  please  myself  with  the  thought  that  he  was  not  wholly 
dead.  This  ho\\Tever  was  soon  proved  by  his  glassy  and 
sunken  eyes,  his  motionless  heart,  and  the  general  rigi 
dity  of  his  limbs. 

A  black  ribbon  was  hung  round  his  neck  ;  I  drew  it 
forth,  and  discovered  the  miniature  of  a  beautiful  young 
woman.  I  wrapped  it,  together  with  his  watch  and  poc 
ket-book,  in  his  neck-cloth,  determining,  if  saved  my 
self,  to  transmit  them  to  his  friends,  as  mournful  memen 
tos  of  his  unhappy  end.  I  then  lifted  the  body  in  my 
arms,  and  approaching  a  brink  of  the  ice,  rolled  it  into 
the  sea.  I  would  gladly  have  kept  it  by  me,  and  made 
society  of  it,  but  a  horrid  suspicion  that  famine  might 
before  long  tempt  me  to  a  repast  abhorrent  to  my  present 


268  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

feelings,  determined  me  to  put  it  beyond  the  reach  of  vio 
lation,  and  I  committed  it  to  the  deep.  I  was  now 
alone. 

Struck  to  the  heart  with  a  feeling  of  my  loneliness 
and  forlornness,  I  sat  down,  buried  my  face  in  my  hands, 
and  gave  myself  up  to  despair.  Why  had  not  I  perish 
ed  with  my  companions  ?  A  quiet  grave  at  the  bottom  of 
the  ocean,  or  in  the  bowels  of  one  of  ocean's  monsters, 
was  preferable  to  this  icy  and  living  tomb. 

The  love  of  life  prevailed  over  despair.  Providence 
had  not  snatched  me  from  the  devouring  waves  to  expose 
me  to  a  more  dreadful  death,  by  deserting  me  in  my 
greater  need.  I  rose  upon  my  feet,  and  looked  around 
me  for  the  means  of  preserving  my  existence.  I  soon 
discovered  that  in  the  vast  mass  of  ice,  upon  which  I 
stood,  there  were  imbedded  many  fragments  of  rocks, 
trunks  of  trees,  and  other  substances,  denoting  it  to  have 
been  formed  on  the  shores  of  some  distant  land.  No 
thing  however  capable  of  satisfying  hunger,  was  to  be 
found.  No  frozen  animal,  nor  lifeless  bird,  rewarded 
my  search ;  and  having  wandered  painfully  and  labori 
ously  about,  wherever  the  asperities  of  the  ice,  or  the 
presence  of  some  land  object,  afforded  me  a  precarious 
footing,  I  at  last  reclined  hopelessly  upon  a  cloven  pine 
tree,  that  projected  from  the  ice.  Above  me — for  the 
berg  was  of  great  height — towered  in  inexpressible  gran 
deur,  cold  and  glittering  pinnacles  of  pure  and  almost 
transparent  ice.  Below  lay  the  ocean,  silent  and  calm, 
presenting  a  surface,  soundless  and  unvaried. 

The  day  passed  away  wearily  and  monotonously  ;  the 
night  found  me  ;  and  still  I  clung  listlessly  to  the  shatter 
ed  pine. 

The  moon  rose — I  have  always  loved  the  moon  ;  and 
that  night,  while  gazing  upon  her  pure  orb,  now  doubly 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  269 

solitary,  and  thinking  of  many  friends  with  whom  I  had 
sat  at  my  own  vine-covered  porch,  almost  adoring  her 
peaceful  loveliness — of  many  friends  who  might  be,  that 
very  hour,  in  my  own  lost  land,  recalling  the  memory  of 
their  friend  by  gazing  upon  her  again — 1  forgot  for  a  time 
that  I  was  alone,  and  a  dweller  on  an  ice  berg. 

A  rack  of  clouds  passed  over  her  face  ;  I  started — a 
sudden  explosion,  followed  by  a  long  and  heavy  growl 
of  thunder,  admonished  me  of  another  tempest.  I  fast 
ened  my  arms  to  a  branch  of  the  pine,  while  the  winds 
rose,  and  covered  the  moon  and  stars  with  black  clouds. 
The  ocean  again  was  lashed  to  fury,  and  the  foam  of  bil 
lows  dashing  against  the  sharp  angles  of  the  island,  and 
snatched  up  by  the  winds,  broke  over  me  in  incessant 
showers. 

It  was  some  time  before  my  floating  habitation  felt  and 
acknowledged  the  influence  of  the  storm  ;  but  when  the 
agitation  of  the  sea  had  arrived  at  its  height,  there  com 
menced  a  scene  so  appallingly  sublime,  that  even  the  ap 
prehension  of  approaching  destruction  could  not  wholly 
unfit  me  for  enjoying  it.  The  island  rocked,  but  not  as 
a  ship  rocks,  when  she  tumbles  from  a  lofty  wave  into 
the  trough  of  the  sea,  nor  even  as  a  mountain,  when 
vexed  by  the  earthquake  in  its  bowels.  It  seemed  rather 
to  reel  or  spin  round,  like  a  kraaken  in  the  whirlpool  of 
Norway  ;  sometimes  lurching  heavily  over,  until  its  tall 
est  precipices  were  buried  in  the  waves.  Then  a  more 
regular  assault  of  gusts  and  breakers  prevailing,  it  would 
stoop  and  yield  before  the  wind,  and  drift  with  amazing 
celerity  through  the  waters. 

Happily  my  position  was  in  a  central  part;  and  al 
though  occasionally  a  billow  more  mountainous  and  vo 
racious  than  the  rest,  would  seem  almost  to  overwhelm 

23* 


270  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

the  island,  and  dash  itself  at  my  feet,  I  felt  myself  par 
tially  secure. 

All  this,  however,  was  trifling  to  that  which  soon  fol 
lowed.  I  know  not  whether  the  tornado  had  huddled 
the  other  ice  islands  together  and  impelled  them  with  vio 
lence  against  my  own,  or  whether  my  island  may  not 
have  struck  upon  some  concealed  rock.  Be  that  as  it 
may,  I  was  suddenly  alarmed  by  a  shock  that  communi 
cated  itself  in  a  vibratory  shudder  to  all  parts  of  the  isl 
and,  followed  by  a  deafening  crash ;  and  in  another  mo 
ment,  I  was  made  sensible,  by  the  distracted  and  impet 
uous  tossing  of  my  berg,  and  by  many  successive  shocks, 
that  it  had  been  split  in  twain,  and  was  now  breaking  to 
pieces. 

The  storm  died  gradually  away  ;  and  with  the  morn 
ing  sun  came  another  calm,  and  another  day  of  famine 
and  of  misery. — 

Several  days  succeeded  to  this,  a  dull  and  horrid  cal 
endar  of  starvation,  distraction,  and  stupor.  Of  water  I 
had  plenty  :  I  slaked  my  thirst,  by  sucking  it  from  a 
piece  of  ice,  or  by  scooping  it  in  my  hands  from  the 
puddles  that  formed  every  day  around  the  trees,  rocks, 
and  earth  on  my  island.  But  food — I  had  no  food.  I 
chewed  such  splinters  of  bark  and  wood  as  I  could  tear 
away  from  the  pine  tree — they  were  dry  and  disgustful. 
I  cut  strips  of  leather  from  my  shoes,  and  endeavoured  to 
eat  them.  A  letter  that  I  had  valued  beyond  my  life, 
remained  in  one  of  my  pockets — I  chewed  and  swallow 
ed  it ;  but  it  gave  me  no  relief. 

A  burning,  excruciating  fire  was  in  my  stomach  ;  and 
although  I  drank  copiously  of  the  melted  ice,  the  fever 
ish  agony  increased,  till  at  last  even  this  grew  nauseous, 
and  my  stomach  revolted  at  it.  Then  I  began  to  sicken 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  271 

and  swoon,  and  lie  for  hours  in  a  state  of  stupefaction, 
insensible  to  every  thing  but  a  dull  gnawing  pain  in  my 
stomach.  Rains  would  pour  down  upon  me,  and  beat  in 
my  face,  unregarded ;  and  once  there  happened  another 
storm,  almost  as  violent  as  those  I  have  described,  which 
I  listened  to  with  indifference.  I  cared  not — nay  I  rath 
er  desired  that  some  friendly  billow  might  wash  me  away, 
and  make  an  end  of  my  miseries.  But  they  disturbed 
me  not  ;  and  still  1  lay  by  my  pine  tree,  unmindful  of 
the  joyous  sun  that  burst  out  after  the  gale. 

Once  too,  as  I  lay  in  that  state  of  fearful  stupefaction, 
my  nostrils  were  suddenly  saluted  with  delicious  odours 
coming  upon  the  breeze,  and  my  ears  invaded  with  the 
shrill  cries  of  birds.  I  started  up,  and,  looking  around, 
I  beheld  myself  within  a  few  leagues  of  land.. ..Was this 
an  illusion  of  madness  ?  Did  I  dream  ?  Were  those  glo 
rious  blue  hills  that  rose  before  my  eyes,  those  green 
fresh  forests,  those  yellow  beaches  edged  with  snowy 
surf,  merely  a  phantom  paradise  made  up  of  delusive 
fogs  ? — an  airy  nothing,  conjured  up  to  mock  me  in  my 
misery  ?  My  soul  was  filled  with  transport :  the  vision 
grew  in  my  eyes,  and  as  the  current  bore  me  nearer  and 
nearer  to  it,  it  increased  in  beauty,  magnificence,  and  re 
ality.  I  could  count  the  shells  on  the  shore ;  I  could 
distinguish  the  seal  and  the  turtle  sunning  themselves  in 
the  golden  sands.  I  could  behold  rivulets  of  fresh  water 
come  dashing  down  the  blue  hills,  in  a  sparkle  of  light 
and  splendour.  Tall  palms,  and  cabbage  trees,  rose  on 
my  sight;  green  sloping  hills,  and  verdant  valleys,  were 
before  me. 

I  was  evidently  under  the  control  of  a  current  that 
seemed  to  sweep  round  a  little  promontory,  and  then 
make  a  circle  into  a  deep  bay  beyond  it. 

Distracted,  frantic  with  joy,  I  waited  for  the  moment 


272  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

when  I  was  to  double  the  cape,  and  throw  myself  from 
my  island,  in  an  effort  to  swim  to  the  shore. 

It  came — I  whirled  round  the  point,  and  the  next  mo 
ment  found  that  the  estuary  heyond  it  was  the  mouth  of 
an  impetuous  torrent,  which  in  an  instant  swept  me  far 
from  the  land.  I  shrieked,  I  howled,  I  tore  my  hair  ; — 
I  approached  the  edge  of  an  icy  cliff  to  throw  myself 
into  the  sea,  and  drown  :  but  my  emotions  were  beyond 
my  strength — I  fell  into  a  swoon,  and  that  blissful  shore, 
that  Eden  of  the  waters,  was  lost  to  me  for  ever. 

I  awoke  from  my  trance — I  cast  my  eye  back  to  the 
land  ;  it  lay  like  a  blue  cloud  on  the  horizon,  sinking  and 
sinking  in  the  distance  and  the  twilight,  until  it  vanish 
ed,  and  I  was  again  sent  out  into  the  wide  ocean. 

Famine,  fatigue,  suffering,  and  disappointed  hope  had 
done  their  work  ;  and  the  afternoon  of  another  day  saw 
me  reclining  on  a  fragment  of  rock,  watching  with  a  vo 
racious  eye  flocks  of  sea  birds  skimming  and  eddying 
above  me.  They  flew  around  me,  croaking  and  scream 
ing,  nay  they  flapped  their  wings  in  my  face,  as  if  impa 
tient  of  the  hour  which  was  to  give  them  a  banquet  upon 
human  flesh.  I  waved  my  hand  ;  I  shouted,  and  the 
hoarse  -sound  frighted  them  from  me.  One  alone  remain 
ed  ;  it  crept  for  food  into  a  little  hollow  of  the  ice,  where 
I  followed  and  secured  it.  I  tore  it  with  my  nails,  and 
devoured  it.  Refreshed,  although  but  half  satisfied,  1 
arose  and  looked  again  upon  the  ocean.  A  white  speck  ap 
peared  on  the  horizon;  it  grew,  it  increased,  it  approached 
— I  saw  it — a  sail —  one,  two,  three,  four — 0  heaven  !  a 
gallant  fleet,  rising  white  and  glorious,  from  the  blue 
waters.  Onwards  and  onwards  they  came,  their  sails  set, 
and  their  prows  dashing  up  the  dark  element  in  clouds 
of  snowy  foam.  Hope  gave  me  supernatural  strength  : 
I  climbed  an  icy  peak,  and  stretched  forth  my  arms  to 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  273 

them.  I  shouted  to  them,  till  my  voice,  hollow  and  bro 
ken,  dwindled  into  a  feeble  whisper.  The  foremost  of 
them  was  now  within  a  mile  of  me.  I  could  see  men 
thronging  the  decks,  and  methought  even  at  that  distance 
I  could  distinguish  them,  all  with  their  eyes  fixed  on  me, 
and  some  surveying  me  through  glasses.  But  they  did  not 
deviate  from  their  course — they  seemed  passing  me;  I  tore 
the  garments  from  my  back,  and  waved  them  in  the  air. 
They  passed  on  in  their  course.  The  second  came,  and 
the  third — all — all — they  passed  me,  and  replied  not  to 
my  frantic  signals.  The  seventh  and  last,  the  convoy  of 
the  squadron,  now  appeared.  The  starry  flag  of  my 
country  fluttered  from  her  peak.  My  gestures  and  cries 
were  now  like  those  of  a  madman.  I  flung  my  neck 
cloth  high  in  the  air  ;  and  the  wind  swept  it  from  me 
into  the  sea.  But  they  saw  it — they  saw  it  !  They  fired 
a  gun  ;  and  I  looked  for  them  to  lay  to.  I  watched  for 
the  launching  of  the  boat.  I  deceived  myself.  It  was  a 
signal  for  the  squadron  to  vary  their  course  ;  and  squad 
ron  and  convoy  soon  vanished  from  my  eyes. 

I  swooned,  and  revived  to  curse  my  fate  and  act  the 
madman.  The  sun  was  setting.  I  crawled  to  a  brink  of 
the  ice,  fully  resolved  to  throw  myself  into  the  sea.  A 
dark  object  presented  itself  to  my  eyes,  lying  immediate 
ly  under  the  island,  and  night  had  not  so  far  advanced, 
as  to  prevent  me  from  recognising  in  this  singular  appari 
tion,  a  wreck,  water-logged  and  without  masts,  rolling 
heavily  in  the  sea.  Something  moved  upon  the  stern. 

0  heaven  !  was  it  a  human  being — one  like  myself,  spa 
red  to  be  mocked  as  I  had  been  ? — I  endeavoured  to  call 
aloud,  but  my  previous  exertions  had  left  me  voiceless. 

1  presented  myself  on  the  cliff,  and  this  miserable  crea 
ture  now  appeared  to  me  a  dog,  which,  seeing  me,  set  up 
a  loud  howl.     It  was  not  the  plaintive  cry  we  so  often 


274  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

hear  uttered  by  this  animal ;  not  the  animated  yelp  of  re 
cognition  :  no — hunger  had  changed  its  nature,  as  it  had 
changed  mine — it  was  the  howl  of  a  famished  fiend,  the 
scream  of  a  beast  of  prey.  This  also  disappeared,  and 
night  was  again  upon  the  ocean. 

The  morning  came  ;  I  cared  not  for  it.  The  sun  was 
melting  my  island  under  me,  and  must  soon  mingle  it 
with  the  waters  :  I  cared  not  for  that.  Days  passed  ;  I 
forgot  to  count  them.  I  was  resigned  to  my  fate  ;  the 
pangs  of  hunger  were  now  unfelt.  I  was  happy,  for  I 
knew  I  was  dying  :  but  death  came  slowly,  my  constitu 
tion  resisted  him.  1  lay  in  a  horrid  stupor. 

From  this  state  I  was  roused  by  a  human  voice — yes, 
many  voices  shouting  and  calling  aloud.  I  crawled  from 
my  cave — I  rose  feebly  to  my  feet.  A  ship  with  her  sails 
backed,  lay  a  few  furlongs  to  windward  of  me.  They 
had  descried  my  handkerchief,  which  I  had  hung  upon  a 
branch  of  the  pine,  and  stuck  in  one  of  the  most  elevated 
parts  of  the  island. 

They  saw  me,  and  shouted  cheeringly  and  triumphant 
ly.  They  put  out  a  boat,  which  approached  the  ice  :  but 
its  sharp  and  upright  sides  rendered  it  impossible  for 
them  to  land  on  it.  I  succeeded  in  crawling  to  a  part  of 
the  berg,  where  it  inclined  shelvingly  to  the  water,  and 
as  a  last  effort,  slid  myself  down  into  the  sea. 

I  was  taken  up,  and  found  myself  fostered  among  the 
rude  but  kind-hearted  tars  of  my  own  country. 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  275 


BY  C.  W.  THOMSON. 

THE  road  of  life  is  but  a  game, 

Where  some  a  thirst  for  power  and  fame, 

And  some  for  pleasure  feel — 
But  every  player  does  not  win, 
Although  he  fairly  may  begin, 

And  make  a  proper  deal. 

Some  men  assume  the  part  of  trade, 
Some  turn  the  soil  with  active  spade, 

While  some  to  wealth  incline, 
And  making  into  earth  their  way, 
Bring  up,  before  the  light  of  day, 

The  diamond  of  the  mine. 

In  clubs  some  take  an  active  part — 
While  some  the  dictates  of  the  heart 

With  eager  zeal  pursue ; 
And,  giv'n  to  wine,  their  ruin  prove — 
Or,  trusting  else  in  faithless  love, 

Their  disappointment  rue. 

All  have  their  different  parts  assigned, 
And  ranks  throughout  the  world  we  find, 

'Mid  people  red  and  black, 
Each  on  the  one  below  him  leans — 
Some  rise  aloft  to  Kings  and  Queens, 

Some  sink  to  humble  Jack. 


276  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

But  whether  stationed  high  or  low, 
He  who  his  honest  heart  can  know 

Free  from  reproving  thumps, 
E'en  though  he  own  nor  house,  nor  lands, 
That  man  in  native  glory  stands, 

The  very  ace  of  trumps. 

Some  men  will  shuffle  through  their  day, 
Unmindful  how  their  partners  play  ; 

Unmoved  they  seem  to  stand, 
And  throw  their  cards  with  a  most  bold 
And  tranquil  face,  although  they  hold 

A  miserable  hand. 

The  daring  spirits  take  the  lead, 
While  those  that  in  the  game  succeed, 

Seem  bound  to  follow  suit, 
Such  play  the  very  deuce  at  last, 
Their  fortune,  character  they  blast, 

And  reap  the  bitter  fruit. 

How  oft  alas!  it  is  the  fate 

Of  jarring  comrades,  wise  too  late, 

To  play  a  luckless  club, 
And  sadly  finding  out  at  last, 
The  time  for  meditation  past, 

A  heart  had  gained  the  rub. 

By  honour  some  their  fortunes  win, 
And  some  by  trick,  nor  deem  it  sin 

To  profit  as  they  may — 
But  time  will  oft  the  wretch  expose 
To  merited  contempt,  who  chose 

Dishonourable  play. 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  277 

'Tis  only  he,  who,  void  of  guile, 
Knows  that  he  has  a  right  to  smile, 

And  tells  his  heart  the  same — 
'Tis  only  he,  when  Fate  shall  close 
His  pack  of  chequered  joys  and  woes, 

Has  fairly  won  the  game. 


24 


278  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 


©IF 


BY  MRS.  SARAH  HALL. 


I  pray  you,  let  us  satisfy  our  eyes 

With  the  memorials,  and  the  tilings  of  fame, 

That  do  renown  this  city.—  Twelfth  Night. 

As  human  nature  is  said  to  be  the  same  in  every  age 
and  country,  it  is  reasonable  to  expect  that  our  infant  stage 
should  successively  exhibit  every  character  that  has  flou 
rished  in  maturer  regions.  The  antiquary,  one  might 
imagine,  could  find  no  food  in  our  new  world  to  regale 
his  appetite.  Yet  even  antiquaries  are  starting  up  amongst 
us;  and  our  ancients  are  called  upon  to  ransack  their  me 
mories,  and  recite  the  tales  of  days  long  past.  It  is  said 
to  be  the  spirit  of  the  times  to  neglect  the  aged,  and  give 
all  honour  to  the  young.  Old  men,  and  old  women,  will 
then  be  gratified  by  this  unexpected  summons,  and  will, 
very  probably,  bring  out  all  their  stores.  America  has 
no  Druidical  altars;  no  incomprehensible  Stonehedge;  no 
circle  of  Dendara,  to  elicit  her  lore.  Every  thing  with 
us  is  young;  all  is  within  the  memory  or  the  attainment 
of  her  citizens.  Some  ancient  monuments  have  indeed 
been  discovered  in  our  western  states,  and  their  origin 
and  design  have  hitherto  baffled  the  investigations  of  our 
philosophers.  We  have,  then,  no  subjects  of  inquiry  but 
the  gradual  progress  of  our  settlements,  and  the  ever- 
changing  manners  of  their  inhabitants;  and  if  man  be  the 
proper  study  of  man,  these  topics  may  not  be  without  in 
terest  to  the  curious, 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  279 

There  are  yet  living  in  Philadelphia,  many  who  can 
tell  of  incredible  revolutions  since  they  played  in  her 
streets.  They  well  remember  when  this  wide-spread 
metropolis  was  comparatively  a  village,  and  had  the  sim 
ple  manners  of  a  village.  The  impressions  of  childhood 
are  too  deep  to  be  effaced.  The  language  of  that  day, 
when  they  said  of  a  person  who  was  about  to  make  a 
voyage  to  England,  that  he  was  going  home,  seems  to 
them  but  of  yesterday;  and  the  peal  of  Christ  church 
bells,  for  the  king's  birth-day,  or  the  discovery  of  the 
gunpowder  plot,  still  rings  in  their  ears.  The  revolution 
made  a  change  in  all  these  matters  of  homage  to  the  mo 
ther  country,  not  more  remarkable  than  that  which  it 
quickly  produced  upon  the  appearance  of  the  city  and  the 
manners  of  the  people. 

Previous  to  the  occupation  of  Philadelphia,  by  the  Bri 
tish  troops,  in  1777,  Water,  Front,  and  Third,  were  the 
only  streets  parallel  with  the  Delaware  river,  that  were 
closely  built.  Many  houses  in  these  days,  which  are  not 
now  thought  sufficiently  genteel  or  convenient  for  a  se 
cond-rate  tradesman,  were  then  inhabited  by  the  rich  and 
honourable  of  the  land.  The  cross  streets,  from  Pine  to 
Vine,  extended  from  the  river  to  Fourth  street.  A  large 
double  house  in  Market  street,*  between  Fifth  and  Sixth, 
stood  alone,  and  was  considered  out  of  town.  It  was 
afterwards  successively  occupied  by  the  two  Presidents, 
Washington  and  Adams.  The  house  now  tenanted  by 
the  Schuylkill  Bank,  is  the  only  one  besides,  recollected 
in  this  quarter.  This  belonged  to  Joseph  Galloway,  Esq., 
and  was  confiscated,  in  consequence  of  his  adherence  to 
the  king  in  the  revolutionary  war.  The  state  house,  a 

*  Built  by  William  Masters,  Esq.,  whose  eldest  daughter  was  the  lady 
of  the  governor,  Richard  Penn. 


280  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

jail,  a  court  house,  an  hospital,  and  almshouse,*  and  a  city 
library,  and  about  a  dozen  churches,  constituted  the 
amount  of  our  public  buildings.  The  jail,  and  library, 
have  been  long  since  removed.  The  former,  together 
with  its  yard,  (enclosed  by  a  stone  wall,)  and  the  jailer's 
house,  occupied  about  one-third  of  the  west  side  of  Third, 
from  the  corner  of  Market  street:  and  the  latter,  a  mean 
one  story  tenement  of  stone,  stood  in  a  muddy  lane — 
which  is  now  Fifth  street — and  near  to  the  corner  of 
Chestnut— a  spot  now  ornamented  by  our  state-house 
square.t  The  market-house  extended  from  Front  to  Third 
streets,  and  at  this  last  extremity — convenient  to  its  pa 
rent,  the  jail,  stood  a  pillory  and  whipping  post,  where 
felons  were  usually  exhibited  on  market  days.  Still,  Phi 
ladelphia,  at  this  early  day,  was  not  without  many  spa 
cious  mansions;  but  they  were  distributed  in  all  parts  of 
the  city.  We  could  boast  of  none  of  those  splendid  rows 
which  now  challenge  a  comparison  with  the  edifices  of 
any  other  metropolis.  Carriages,  or  coaches,  and  cha 
riots,  as  they  were  then  respectively  called,  were  yet 
more  scarce,  than  large  dwellings.  Our  progenitors  did 
did  not  deem  a  carriage  a  necessary  appendage  of  wealth 
and  respectability.  Many  merchants  and  professional 
gentleman  kept  a  one-horse  chair,  but  every  man's  coach 
was  known  by  every  body.  There  were  not  more,  per 
haps,  than  ten  or  twelve  in  the  city.  A  hack  had  not 
been  heard  of.  There  was  one  public  stage  to  New  York, 
and  there  may  have  been  stages  to  Baltimore  and  Lancas 
ter,  but  they  are  not  recollected; — indeed,  there  was  so 

*  Then  called  the  bettering  house. 

t  A  few  years  more,  and  it  will  be  forgotten  that  we  owe  this  embel 
lishment  and  convenience,  to  the  taste  and  exertions  of  the  father  of  our 
worthy  fellow  citizen,  John  Vaughan,  Esq. 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  281 

little  intercourse  between  our  city  and  these  towns,  that 
their  names  were  scarcely  known  until  the  war  brought 
them  into  notice. 

Let  it  not  however  be  supposed  that  we  were  without 
refinement:  we  were  polite,  though  frugal.  We  had  a 
theatre  and  a  dancing  assembly.  The  latter  was  held 
once  a  fortnight,  and  managed  by  six  married  gentlemen, 
of  the  most  respectable  rank  and  character.  This  associ 
ation,  it  must  be  confessed,  partook  of  the  aristocratic 
feeling  infused  into  our  community  by  a  monarchical  gov 
ernment.  The  families  of  mechanics,  however  wealthy, 
were  not  admitted.  The  subscription  was  31.  15s.  and 
admitted  the  master  and  the  females  of  his  family.  Young 
men  never  appeared  there  under  the  age  of  twenty-one, 
and  then  they  paid  for  their  own  tickets.  Young  ladies 
could  not  be  introduced  under  eighteen. 

Supper  at  the  assembly  consisted  of  tea,  chocolate,  and 
rusk — a  simple  cake,  now  never  seen  amidst  the  profu 
sion  of  confectionary  that  inundates  our  entertainments. 
We  had  at  that  time  no  spice  of  French  in  our  institutions; 
consequently,  we  did  not  know  how  to  romp  in  cotillions, 
but  moved  with  grave  dignity  in  minuets,  and  sober  gai 
ety  in  country  dances.  Every  thing  was  conducted  by 
rule  and  order:  places  were  distributed  by  lot,  and  part 
ners  were  engaged  for  the  evening;  and  neither  could  be 
changed,  by  either  forwardness  or  favouritism.  Gentle 
men  always  drank  tea  with  their  partners  the  day  after 
the  assembly.  Private  balls  were  sometimes  given:  tea 
parties  were  not  known  by  that  term,  yet  by  the  estab 
lished  modes  of  visiting,  ten  or  a  dozen  ladies  were  often 
collected,  to  partake  of  that  pleasant  beverage.  Christ 
mas  was  peculiarly  the  time  for  dinner  parties.  Fami 
lies,  and  the  circle  of  their  intimate  friends,  invariably 
took  the  round  of  dinners  during  the  holidays;  and  the 

24* 


282  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

meeting  was  always  protracted  to  a  supper.  Morning 
visits  were  very  rare.  Hours  were,  comparatively,  very 
early:  the  most  formal  dinner  was  on  the  table  at  two  or 
three,  and  supper  between  nine  and  ten.  Of  the  few 
practices  not  to  be  commended  in  these  primeval  days, 
perhaps  it  is  one,  that  supper,  after  tea,  was  a  customary 
meal  in  every  family.  Sociable  visits  were  then  paid, 
not  at  night,  but  in  the  afternoon.  A  matron  would  drink 
tea  with  her  friend,  return  home  by  candle-lighting,  tie 
on  her  check  apron,  and  put  her  children  to  bed. 

As  we  are  not  instituting  a  comparison  between  the 
rusticity  of  our  state,  whilst  we  were  dependent  colonies, 
and  our  improvements  and  conveniences  since  we  become 
a  sovereign  nation,  we  shall  simply  state  the  amount  of 
our  attainments  in  the  infancy  of  the  city.  Marble  man 
tels,  and  folding  doors,  were  not  then  indispensably  ne 
cessary  to  make  a  house  tenantable — nor  sofas,  nor  car 
pets,  nor  girandoles.  A  white  floor,  sprinkled  with  clean 
sand,  large  tables,  and  heavy  high-backed  chairs  of  wal 
nut  or  mahogany,  decorated  a  parlour  genteelly  enough 
for  any  body.  Sometimes,  a  carpet,  not,  however,  cov 
ering  the  whole  floor,  was  seen  upon  the  dining-room. 
This  was  a  show-parlour  up  stairs— not  used  but  upon 
state  occasions — and  then  to  dine  in.  Although  many 
articles  which  now  minister  to  our  comfort  were  then  un 
known,  yet  our  houses  were  abundantly  provided  with 
necessary  and  substantial  furniture.  Pewter  plates  and 
dishes  were  in  general  use:  having  no  trade  to  China,  the 
porcelain  of  that  country,  if  seen  at  all  on  a  dinner-table, 
was  only  displayed  on  great  occasions.  Plate,  more  or 
less,  was  seen  in  every  family  of  easy  circumstances;  not 
indeed  in  all  the  various  shapes  that  have  since  been  in 
vented,  but  in  massive  waiters,  bowls,  tankards,  cans,  &c. 
&c.  Glass  tumblers  were  but  little  used;  punch,  the  most 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  283 

common  beverage,  was  drunk  by  the  company  from  one 
large  bowl  of  silver  or  china;  and  beer,  from  a  tankard  of 
the  former  metal.  Dress  was  discriminative,  and  appro 
priate,  both  as  it  regarded  the  season  and  the  character  of 
the  individual.  Ladies  never  wore  the  same  dresses  at 
work  and  on  visits.  They  sat  at  home,  or  went  out  in 
in  the  morning,  in  chintz — brocades,  satins,  and  mantuas, 
were  reserved  for  evening  or  dinner  parties.  Robes,  or 
negligees,  as  they  were  called,  were  always  worn  in  full 
dress.  Muslins  were  not  worn  at  all.  Little  misses,  at 
a  dancing-school  ball — for  these  were  almost  the  only 
fetes  that  fell  to  their  share  in  the  days  si  discrimination 
— were  drest  in  frocks  of  lawn  or  cambric.  Worsted  was 
then  thought  dress  enough  for  common  days.  We  should 
shock  the  grandfathers,  perhaps  we  might  say  the  fathers, 
of  the  present  race,  if  we  should  tell  them,  that  when 
boys,  they  wore  long  coats  and  small-clothes !  Gentlemen 
wore  light-coloured  cloths  of  every  hue:  blue,  green,  drab, 
blossom,  or  scarlet.  Black  was  used  as  mourning  only, 
or  as  a  professional  dress. 

Boarding-schools  for  girls  were  not  known  in  Phila 
delphia  until  about  the  time  of  the  Revolution;  nor  had 
they  any  separate  schools  for  writing  and  ciphering,  but 
they  were  taught  in  common  with  boys.  The  ornamen 
tal  parts  of  female  education  were  bestowed  on  them,  but 
geography  and  grammar  were  probably  thought  too  ab 
struse  for  their  flimsy  minds — at  any  rate  no  one  dreamed 
of  making  the  experiment,  until  a  certain  gentleman, 
named  Horton,  proposed  to  teach  those  sciences  to  young 
ladies.  He  obtained  a  class  of  about  half  a  dozen,  and 
the  idea  being  once  broached  that  females  had  intellects, 
institutions  for  their  improvement  soon  multiplied. 

But  perhaps  there  is  a  balance  of  advantages  and  dis- 


284  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

advantages  in  every  age.  In  the  olden  time,  domestic 
comfort  was  not  every  day  interrupted  by  the  pride  and 
the  profligacy  of  servants.  There  were  then  but  few  hired; 
black  slaves,  and  German  and  Irish  redemptioners,  made 
up  the  mass.  Personal  liberty  is  unquestionably  the  in 
herent  right  of  every  human  creature;  but  the  slaves  of 
Philadelphia  were  a  happier  class  of  people  than  the  free 
blacks  of  the  present  day,  who' taint  the  very  air  by  their 
vices,  and  exhibit  every  sort  of  wretchedness  and  profli 
gacy  in  their  dwellings.  The  former  felt  themselves  to 
be  an  integral  part  of  the  family  to  which  they  belonged; 
they  experienced  in  all  respects  the  same  consideration 
and  kindness  as  white  servants,  and  they  were  faithful 
and  contented.  Servants,  in  the  days  of  which  we  speak, 
affected  no  equality  with  their  masters;  they  knew  their 
places,  and  they  kept  them ;  nor  did  they,  in  either  dress 
or  manners,  indicate  an  ambition  to  rise  to  the  level  of 
their  superiors. 

It  is  certainly  an  evidence  of  the  honesty  of  our  popula 
tion,  previously  to  the  Revolution,  that  our  front  doors 
stood  open  all  day;  in  pleasant  weather  they  were  open 
also  in  the  evening,  at  which  time  people  frequently  sat 
in  the  porches  which  were  appended  to  every  dwelling. 
By  this  practice  the  social  intercourse  of  neighbourhoods 
was  facilitated:  neighbours  sat  together,  or  walked  from 
door  to  door,  and  chatted  away  a  friendly  hour.  All  who 
lived  within  the  square,  and  whose  rank  was  nearly  the 
same,  had  this  appellation,  and  were  visited  accordingly. 
It  may  be  proper,  here,  to  inform  the  reader  that  Philadel 
phia  then  had  no  influxes  of  strangers  as  she  now  receives 
from  year  to  year.  The  inhabitants  were  the  descendants 
of  the  first  settlers,  and  were  almost  all  known  by  name, 
and  a  considerable  part  personally  to  one  another.  Of  late 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  285 

years,  the  practice  of  visiting  families  who  come  into 
your  vicinity,  has  been  in  a  great  measure  disused;  for 
merly  it  was  a  hospitality  very  seldom  omitted. 

In  submitting  these  brief  notices  of  Philadelphia  as  it 
was,  to  our  readers,  we  suppose  we  shall  elicit  a  smile, 
and  perhaps  a  sneer  too,  at  the  rusticity  of  the  early  set 
tlers;  yet  it  may  not  be  unamusing.  Manners  and  cus 
toms  pass  away,  and  new  inventions  take  their  places — 
but  all  are  good  in  their  own  times — a  Christmas  turkey 
was  as  palatable  fifty  years  ago  from  a  dish  of  pewter, 
brightly  scoured,  as  a  bouille  is  now,  from  one  of  French 
china. 

The  age  of  our  city  does  not  much  exceed  a  century 
and  a  half.  Since  the  date  of  our  independence,  it  has 
increased  with  such  astonishing  rapidity,  both  in  extent 
and  opulence.  Our  new  streets  approach  to  patrician 
splendour,  and  the  old  houses,  in  which  our  ancestors  ac 
quired  wealth,  are  becoming  so  offensive  to  our  improved 
ideas  in  taste,  that  they  are  continually  disappearing,  to 
make  room  for  a  better  order  of  things.  We  often  fear 
that  our  venerable  state-house,  and  old  Christ  church, 
will  start  up  some  of  these  days  in  a  dress  of  marble,  in 
accordance  with  the  modern  morbid  passion  for  magnifi 
cence. 

Since  then  the  prevailing  temper  of  the  times  is  to  make 
all  things  new;  and  the  generation  which  by  personal 
knowledge,  or  by  tradition,  possesses  the  power  of  telling 
of  things  as  they  were,  is  fast  passing  away — it  is  a  mat 
ter  of  some  interest  to  collect  amongst  them,  the  relics  of 
our  infant  condition.  The  older  inhabitants  of  our  towns 
and  cities  can  contribute  much  towards  a  history  of  the 
early  settlers  in  the  minor  particulars  of  their  customs 
and  habits,  far  more  illustrative  of  their  character,  than 
great  events.  They  can  tell  how  America,  by  patience 


286  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

and  industry,  has  developed  her  genius,  and  advanced 
from  insignificance  amongst  the  nations  of  the  earth,  to  a 
station  not  merely  respectable,  but  greatly  to  be  envied. 

Since  we  commenced  these  remarks,  we  have  been 
kindly  favoured  with  the  sight  of  a  curious  manu 
script  on  the  same  subject.  The  writer  is  a  very  enthu 
siast  in  antiquities,  and  seems  to  have  laid  under  con 
tribution  all  the  well-stricken  in  years  within  his  reach. 
From  the  most  respectable  authorities,  he  has  collected  a 
mass  of  curious  facts  and  anecdotes,  respecting  Philadel 
phia  and  the  neighbouring  villages — particularly  of  Ger- 
mantown.  Springs,  creeks,  groves  and  copses,  which 
once  broke  and  diversified  the  ground,  now  levelled  and 
drawn  out  into  streets,  are  located  and  recorded.  They 
are  all  gone,  long  since,  and  forgotten;  but  this  indefati 
gable  inquirer  has  performed  a  grateful  service  to  society 
by  rescuing  them  from  oblivion. 

The  rapid  increase  of  our  city  being  frequently  the  sub 
ject  of  conversation,  gentlemen,  not  much  beyond  the 
middle  age,  are  heard  to  say,  that  they  have  skated  on 
ponds  as  far  east  as  Seventh,  and  even  Fifth,  streets;  and 
many  remember  lots,  inclosed  by  post  and  rail  fences,  in 
the  now  most  populous  and  busy  streets.  But  we  had  not 
heard  of  a  duck  and  geese  pond  near  to  Christ  church, 
until  we  found  it  mentioned  in  the  manuscript  just  allu 
ded  to.  The  writer  of  this  interesting  collection  has  dis 
covered  also  the  location  of  a  mineral  spring,  spoken  of 
in  Penn's  letters;  and  at  least  of  six  others  within  the 
city;  and  particularly  a  remarkable  basin  surrounded  by 
shrubs,  called  "  Bathsheba's  spring  and  bower."  Many 
circumstances  respecting  Philadelphia,  not  of  sufficient 
importance  to  be  admitted  into  a  regular  history,  will  be 
found  in  this  book.  They  will  be  amusing  to  our  chil 
dren;  and  indeed  there  is  much,  of  which  the  younger 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  287 

part  of  the  present  generation  are  entirely  ignorant.  These 
things,  trifling  as  they  may  appear,  at  first  view,  are 
worth  preserving;  and  all  who  remember  the  olden  time 
will  do  well  to  contribute  their  mite. 


288  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 


TO  THE  "HORNET." 

BY  H.  8.  GIBSON. 

I  CAME  from  ocean's  deepest  cave, 

And  near  the  ruins  of  a  wreck, 
Snatched  this  sea  garland  from  a  grave, 

Whose  weeds  had  overgrown  the  deck. 
List — listen  to  the  mermaid's  song, 

Though  shrill  her  voice,  and  wild  the  note  ; 
The  music  of  the  seas  belong 

To  those  that  o'er  our  caverns  float. 

The  spirit  of  the  storm  below, 

Awakened  from  his  ocean  bed, 
And  sent  his  messenger  of  woe 

To  bid  the  living  join  the  dead. 
The  mirror  surface  of  the  sea, 

Whose  heavy  swelling  bosom's  still 
As  death,  when  mountain  waves  shall  be 

The  subject  of  our  Neptune's  will. 

/ 
List,  mariners  !  the  sea-bird  screams, 

The  tempest  and  the  whirlwind's  nigh  ! 
Now  starts,  affrighted  in  his  dreams, 

The  sailor  boy,  whose  visions  fly, 
Like  phantoms  from  the  home  of  bliss 

That  sailed  on  fancy's  pinions  there, 
To  know  that  in  a  world  like  this, 

Hope's  spirit  leaves  it  in  despair. 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  289 

Look,  mariners !  yon  sable  cloud 

Is  clothed  with  thunder  !  as  it  forms, 
Thick  darkness  gathers  like  a  shroud, 

Suspended  o'er  a  sea  of  storms. 
List,  panic  stricken  crew  !  and  hear 

The  peal  that  ocean's  echo  brings, 
That  bursts  upon  the  startled  ear, 

Whilst  desolation  spreads  her  wings. 

The  whirlwind's  sporting  with  my  locks — 

I  feel  the  stormy  spirit's  breath, 
That  kisses  on  our  coral  rocks, 

Their  mermaid  messengers  of  death. 
More  wildly  now  my  ringlets  wave — 

Destruction's  hidden  shoals  are  near; 
Avoid  them  as  thou  would'st  the  grave, 

As  hope  would  shrink  from  panic  fear. 

I'll  leave  your  crowded  ship — farewell; 

I  seek  my  coral  groves  once  more  , 
The  next  high  mountain  waves  that  swell, 

Shall  dash  ye  on  a  flinty  shore. 
The  Hornet  hath  my  warning  heard — 

If  fate  should  plunge  her  in  the  deep, 
The  screaming  of  the  wild  sea  bird, 

Shall  ne'er  disturb  the  dreamer's  sleep. 

The  mermaid  sunk — the  waves  arose, 

On  naked  rocks  they  dashed  their  foam  ; 
That  fatal  spot's  the  grave  of  those 

Who  made  the  Hornet's  deck  their  home. 
Her  gallant  crew  will  rise  no  more, 

Till  wakened  from  their  ocean  bed  ; 
She,  anchored  'neath  life's  bleaky  shore, 

Hath  joined  the  navy  of  the  dead. 
25 


290  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 


©IF 


BY  STEPHEN  SIMPSON. 


THE  waywardness  of  genius  has  been  a  perpetual  theme 
for  the  moralist,  the  poet,  and  the  philosopher.     One  of 
the  most  striking  traits  of  wayward  genius  is  an  incapa 
city  of  satisfying  its  own  expectations,  as  well  as  those  of 
the  world,  in  relation  to  its  moral  and  physical  character; 
not  only  as  it  concerns  its  intellectual  achievements,  but 
even  in  relation  to  its  personal  deportment;  for  it  is  a 
fact  attested  by  all  history  and  experience,  that  men  of 
genius  are  seldom  more  agreeable  in  conversation,  than 
they  are  faultless  in  their  productions  or  happy  in  their 
lives.     Seldom,,  or  never,  handsome,  they  are  still  less 
apt  to  be  amiable,  or  pleasant  as  companions,  or  agreea 
ble  as  friends.     Being  of  quick  sagacity,  and  nice  obser 
vation,  they  readily  detect  blemishes  in  others:  and  na 
turally  irritable  and  sarcastic,  they  are  prone  to  indulge 
in  satire  and  turn  the  defects  of  others  into  ridicule.  Vain 
and  presuming,  they  are  at  the  same  time  diffident  and 
jealous  of  praise;  and  while  they  are  morbidly  sensitive 
to  censure,  they  are  equally  dissatisfied  with  applause. 
When  you  praise  them,  they  doubt  your  sincerity;  and 
when  you  reprove  them,  they  question  your  judgment  or 
suspect  your  friendship.    They  are  neither  satisfied  with 
themselves  nor  reconciled  to  the  world.     Although  they 
are  sometimes  vain,  yet  they  are  too  conscious  of  their 
own  defects  to  be  arrogant;  but  they  are  so  superior  to 
the  world,  that  they  feel  proud  when  put  in  comparison 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  291 

with  the  general  order  of  men,  though  humble  when  con 
sidered  in  the  scale  of  positive  perfection. 

Genius  is,  indeed,  an  enigma;  a  something  always  to 
be  studied,  yet  never  to  be  understood.  The  strong  and 
masculine  features  of  lofty  minds  seem  to  conform  every 
thing  about  them  to  this  all  controlling  spirit  of  the  soul. 
Made  up  of  a  concentration  of  violent  passions,  they  form 
vigorous  conceptions  and  decided  judgments;  and  thus 
become  as  inflexible  in  opinion,  as  they  are  rigid  and  un- 
conciliating  in  manners.  It  is  generally  the  quality  of 
feeble  minds  and  instinctive  life,  gifted  with  very  moder 
ate  powers  of  perspicacity,  or  of  imagination,  to  be  amiable, 
soft  and  conciliating;  and  it  is  less  from  acerbity  of  tem 
per,  than  energy  of  intellect,  that  we  find  men  of  genius 
rough  and  ungentle  in  the  announcement,  and  not  less 
positive  in  the  retention  of  their  opinions.  In  general,  wo 
men  and  men,  not  distinguished  for  strong  attributes  of 
mind,  are  the  subjects  of  the  soft,  mild,  and  agreeable  traits 
of  character;  which  depend  less  on  the  goodness  of  the 
heart,  than  the  serene  composure  of  the  intellect.  Nervous 
irritability  is  more  the  cause  than  the  effect  of  genius;  and 
as  this  impels  the  mind  to  the  perception  of  relations  never 
discerned  by  others,  so  it  awakens  feelings  and  thoughts, 
which  cannot  brook  the  ignorance  of  less  profound  and 
comprehensive  intellect,  and  fails  to  excite  the  sympa 
thies  of  the  less  feeling  heart. 

It  is  for  this  reason  that  genius  becomes  too  colossal  to 
retain  the  proportions  of  grace,  or  the  features  of  femi 
nine  delicacy  in  its  character,  however  it  may  be  distin 
guished  for  those  qualities  in  its  productions.  Hence  it 
is  that  men  of  genius  are  seldom,  or  never  esteemed;  and 
very  rarely  loved.  They  offend  too  many  prejudices  to 
be  agreeable — they  assail  too  many  errors  not  to  be  feared; 


292  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

they  break  down  too  many  customs  to  be  admired— tbey 
shock  too  many  feelings  to  be  loved.  Generally  dislike, 
fear,  envy  and  hatred  seem  to  be  the  only  emotions  they 
inspire,  when  they  mix  with  the  world — while,  on  the 
contrary,  universal  admiration  and  lasting  renown  are 
their  lot,  when  they  seclude  themselves  in  devotion  to 
the  divinity  that  stirs  within  them.  Then  kindling  to 
inspiration,  they  throw  off  the  gems  of  heaven  from  the 
glowing  laboratory  of  a  fervid  and  exhaustless  imagina 
tion,  or  compose  treasures  of  knowledge  for  the  instruc 
tion  of  posterity.  Thus  they  never  satisfy  the  world  in 
their  personal  and  moral  character;  and  never,  or  very 
seldom,  fail  in  the  achievement  of  posterior  glory. 

This,  one  would  naturally  suppose,  is  a  measure  of  af 
fliction  quite  sufficient  to  rescue  the  unfortunate  genius 
from  further  calamity;  as  we  are  all  disposed  to  think 
that  some  countervailing  good  is  always  in  store  for  those 
who  suffer  severe  and  protracted  trials.  Yet  is  this  among 
the  least  of  the  evils  which  hurry  down  genius  before  the 
whirlwind  of  passion  into  the  blackness  of  despair.  The 
incapacity  to  satisfy  its  own  expectations  is  a  corrosive 
poison  to  its  peace,  and  a  gnawing  worm  that  never  dies. 
It  cherishes  a  glowing  and  a  boundless  ambition  for  ex 
cellence  unattainable,  and  for  glory  beyond  the  lot  of  mor 
tals.  Oh!  I  have  seen  genius  weep  away  its  nights  of 
anguish  into  days  of  humiliation,  that  it  could  not  equal 
in  composition  the  shadowy  imaginings  of  invention,  as 
they  flitted  before  it  like  the  stars  of  heaven,  now  burn 
ing  bright,  and  now  lost  in  darkness,  as  if  shining  only 
to  deceive  and  putting  on  their  glories  merely  to  lure  us 
to  ruin.  Alexander  wept  when  he  heard  of  his  father's 
victories,  lest  he  should  leave  him  no  harvest  of  glory  to 
reap.  Caesar  too  played  the  woman  when  he  had  con- 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  293 

quered  the  world,  to  find  that  his  cup  of  fame  was  full 
and  that  his  genius  must  become  in  future  a  prey  to  apa 
thy  and  languor.  For  glory  is  the  food  of  genius — its 
sole  delight — its  only  occupation.  Deny  it  that,  and  wo* 
unutterable  is  the  assured  lot  of  that  brilliant  wretch 
whose  ken  pierces  the  veil  that  skreens  eternity  from  the 
common  gaze,  and  riots  in  visions  that  constitute  the  en 
joyments  of  the  gods.  Thus  it  pants  after  perfection  not 
easily  reached;  and,  when  attained,  not  satisfactory,  be 
cause  fresh  glory  must  be  gained,  or  ruin  overwhelms  the 
soul,  when  thus  left  without  its  natural  aliment.  It  is  for 
this  reason,  that  genius  seems  never  to  be  satisfied  with 
itself;  for  as  the  fruition  of  glory  cannot  be  incessant,  the 
doom  of  its  misery  is  as  inevitable  as  it  is  dark  and  deep 
— combining  all  that  can  be  conceived  of  horror,  or  ima 
gined  of  anguish.  Then  it  is,  in  these  mysterious  mo 
ments  of  despondency,  that  genius,  despising  its  own 
destiny,  perverts  its  might  to  its  own  destruction,  in  pre 
ference  to  wearing  away  an  existence  not  illumined  by 
the  rays  of  glory  or  sweetened  by  the  perpetual  voice  of 
praise. 

For  the  same  reason,  no  men  are  so  susceptible  of  flat 
tery  and  so  liable  to  become  victims  to  adulation  as  men 
of  genius;  yet  their  incredulity  would  save  them  from 
this  deception,  did  they  not  prefer  praise  to  sense,  and 
fiction  to  judgment. 

In  the  moments  of  despondency  just  described,  the 
waywardness  of  genius  is  most  observable;  for  when  the 
sun  of  its  fame  is  obscured,  it  loses  itself  in  the  labyrinth 
of  its  own  woes,  and  begins  to  scorn  that  very  glory 
which  is  the  canopy  of  its  ambition's  throne.  It  is  in 
such  moments,  oh,  unhappy  genius!  that  the  fiery  darts 
of  thy  sublimated  soul  pierce  deep  into  thine  own  vitals; 
at  such  times,  beware!  Think  not  of  the  poisoned  bowl, 

25* 


294  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

or  the  bloody  dagger!  Reflect  not  on  the  woes  that  press 
thee  down,  but  fly  to  NATURE  for  succour  and  repose. 
Expand  the  wide  wings  of  thy  sublime  fancy  over  the 
beautiful  and  mysterious  productions  that  lie  spread  be 
fore  you  in  the  glowing  landscape  and  the  gleaming  river 
— in  the  foaming  cataract  and  the  placid  vale — the  hum 
ble  cot  of  industry,  or  the  virtuous  habitation  of  content. 
Give  up  your  soul  to  active  solitude,  or  devote  your  days 
and  nights  to  deeds  of  benevolence  or  designs  of  love. 
Fly  to  the  coverts  and  the  fields,  or  seek  the  abode  of 
misery  to  succour  its  afflictions,  and  pour  gilead  into  its 
wounds!  But  touch  not,  oh,  son  of  vivid  feeling  and  ex 
quisite  fancy!  touch  not  the  inebriating  draught  that  smil 
ing  Bacchus  proffers  to  your  lips,  as  he  chants  the  song 
of  pleasure,  which  falsely  promises  oblivion  to  your  woes. 
Fly!  fly  from  the  magic  charms  of  his  tabor  and  flute,  and 
the  delicious  but  intoxicating  goblet  that  he  holds  forth 
dressed  in  wreaths  of  flowers,  whose  folds  conceal  the 
serpent  death,  and  the  hag  despair!  Touch  it  not,  as  thou 
hopest  for  the  glory  of  earth  or  the  sublime  immortality 
of  God!  But  to  the  fields  repair;  and  climb  the  craggy 
cliffs  that  overhang  the  giddy  cataract,  and  lose,  in  the 
sublime  contemplation  of  nature,  the  littleness  of  thy  own 
ambition. 

Wayward  child  of  genius!  thtis  envied,  thus  admired, 
how  shall  I  describe  thy  fickle  temper,  and  thy  mysteri 
ous  career?  When  censured,  irritable  and  melancholy — 
when  praised,  still  wretched  and  dissatisfied  with  thy  at 
tainments,  improvident  and  reckless;  thou  placest  thy 
happiness  in  visions  and  negiectest  the  only  means  of  ra 
tional  felicity  and  permanent  independence.  Inhabiting 
a  world  of  thy  own  creation,  thou  art  the  victim  of  reali 
ties,  which,  while  they  constitute  the  pleasure  of  rougher 
mortals,  crush  sensibilities  like  thine  into  unutterable  wo! 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  295 

Fame,  how  futile  and  vain  are  thy  aspirations!  Well 
mayest  thou,  proud  genius!  envy  the  carpenter  at  his 
bench — the  smith  at  his  forge — the  tinker  at  his  pots, 
and  the  shoemaker  at  his  lapstone — their  happiness  is 
infinitely  superior  to  that  of  all  the  boasted  geniuses  who 
lap  unreal  glory  in  a  fancied  elysium — or,  at  the  best, 
purchase  immortality  by  a  life  of  wo,  and  a  career  of  an 
guish,  disappointment  and  disease. 


296  THE    PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 


ON  A  BLIND  BOY,  SOLICITING  CHARITY,  BY  PLAYING 
ON  HIS  FLUTE. 


BY    R.  T.  CONRAD. 


*  HAD  not  God,  for  some  wise  purpose,  steel'd 
The  hearts  of  men,  they  must  perforce  have  melted, 
And  barbarism  itself  have  pitied  him.' 

'Tis  vain!     They  heed  thee  not.     Thy  flute's  meek  tone 

Thrills  thine  own  breast  alone.     As  streams  that  glide 
Over  the  desert  rock,  whose  sterile  frown 

Melts  not  beneath  the  soft  and  crystal  tide, 
So  passes  thy  sweet  strain  o'er  hearts  of  stone. 

Thine  out-stretched  hands,  thy  lips'  unuttered  moan, 
Thine  orbs  upturning  to  the  darken'd  sky, 

(Darken'd  alas  !  poor  boy,  to  thee  alone  !) 
Are  all  unheeded  here.  They  pass  thee  by. 
Away  !  —  those  tears,  unmark'd,  fall  from  thy  sightless  eye! 

Ay,  get  thee  gone,  benighted  one  !  —  away  ! 

This  is  no  place  for  thee.     The  buzzing  mart 
Of  selfish  trade,  the  glad  and  garish  day, 

Are  not  for  strains  like  thine.     There  is  no  heart 

To  echo  to  their  soft  appeal.     Depart  ! 
Go,  seek  the  noiseless  glen,  where  shadow's  reign, 

Spreading  a  kindred  gloom  ;  and  there,  apart 
From  the  cold  world,  breathe  out  thy  pensive  strain: 
Better  to  trees  and  rocks,  than  heartless  man,  complain  ! 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  297 

I  pity  thee — thy  life  a  live-long  night ; 
No  friend  to  greet  thee,  and  no  voice  to  cheer: 

No  hand  to  guide  thy  darkling  steps  aright, 
Or  from  thy  pale  cheek  wipe  thj  unbidden  tear. 

I  pity  thee — thus  dark,  and  lone,  and  drear ! 
Yet  haply  it  is  well.     The  world  from  thee 

Hath  veiled  its  wintry  frown — its  withering  sneer  — 
Th'  oppressor's  triumph,  and  the  mocker's  glee : 

Why  then,  rejoice,  poor  boy — rejoice,  thou  canst  not  see! 


298  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 


BY  PETER  M'CALL. 

POETS  of  all  countries,  in  embodying  their  thoughts  of 
man  as  he  ought  to  be,  not  as  he  is,  have  described  a  pe 
riod  of  the  world,  an  age  of  purity,  happiness,  and  peace, 
which  never  had  existence  but  in  the  rainbow  colours  of 
their  own  beautiful  fancy.  The  picture  of  the  primitive 
society  of  Pennsylvania  needs  but  the  touch  of  this  en 
chanting  pencil  to  elevate  it  to  a  golden  age.  The  be 
lief  in  mysterious  and  supernatural  agency,  and  the  dis 
cussion  of  subtile  points  of  theology,  literally  rent  New 
England  in  pieces.  A  single  trial  for  witchcraft,  which 
ended,  however,  in  an  acquittal,  stands  upon  the  records 
of  Pennsylvania,  as  the  Keithian  controversy  was  the 
only  one  that  disturbed  the  harmony  of  the  Society  of 
Friends.  Indeed  it  is  a  striking  feature  of  that  society, 
that  will  doubtless  recommend  it  to  the  good  opinion  of 
not  a  few,  rather  studiously  to  avoid  than  to  invite  or 
willingly  engage  in  polemical  discussion. 

Eminently  calculated  to  diffuse  a  spirit  of  harmony 
and  order,  to  systematise  society,  and  to  promote  that 
tranquillity  which  is  the  great  motive  of  its  institution, 
the  end  and  object  of  its  laws,  the  principles  of  the 
Friends  inculcated  a  deep  and  solemn  veneration  for  the 
constituted  authorities  of  government.  "Government," 
says  Penn,  "  seems  to  me  a  part  of  religion  itself,  a  thing 
sacred  in  its  institution  and  end."  Thus  regarded  as  an 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  299 

emanation  of  divine  power,  and  invested  with  a  religious 
reverence,  the  moral  guilt  of  arresting  or  disturbing  its 
functions  enhanced  the  civil  crime. 

The  spirit  of  private  litigation  is  perhaps  more  fatal 
to  the  peace  of  society,  than  the  daring  outrage  which 
openly  insults  the  majesty  of  the  law.  It  unseals  the 
bitter  fountain  of  evil  passion ;  it  saps  the  morals,  it 
weakens  the  energies  of  a  community.  The  early  in 
habitants  of  Pennsylvania  endeavoured  to  set  bounds  to 
an  evil  that  militated  with  their  pacific  principles,  and 
made  frequent  legislative  efforts  to  check  and  control 
what  they  could  not  wholly  exterminate.  In  illustration 
of  their  peaceful  character,  it  is  related  that  the  adversa 
ry  of  the  venerable  Pastorius,  a  name  honourably  distin 
guished  in  our  annals,  to  deprive  him  of  all  profession 
al  assistance,  retained  the  entire  bar  of  the  province. 
Happy  age  !  when  such  a  stratagem  could  be  effected  ; 
when  Pennsylvania  required  the  services  of  but  three 
lawyers. 

An  honest  and  straightgoing  simplicity,  a  simplicity 
truly  republican,  adorned  the  path  of  our  fathers.  In 
dress,  habits,  manners,  accomplishments,  learning,  legis 
lation,  in  every  sphere  and  department  of  life,  in  public  and 
in  private,  this  is  the  pervading  beautiful  characteristic. 

In  the  statute  book,  it  is  seen  to  reject  with  an  unspar 
ing  hand,  the  cumbrous  forms  and  artificial  processes 
which  time,  not  reason,  had  consecrated  in  the  mother 
country.  While  it  never  flattered  vanity  at  the  expense 
of  truth,  nor  sacrificed  utility  to  senseless  show,  the  sim 
plicity  of  our  ancestors  was  entirely  aloof  from  the  ascet 
ic  severity  of  gloomy  fanaticism  ;  it  claimed  no  kindred 
with  the  sanguinary  spirit  which  dictated  the  blue  laws 
of  a  sister  province.  Springing,  not  from  the  physical 
necessities  of  a  new  settlement,  but^from  the  purer  source 


300  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

of  religious  principle,  it  continued  to  adorn  their  con 
duct,  when  wealth  unlocked  her  stores,  and  invited  them 
to  banquet. 

It  requires  no  depth  of  penetration  to  discover,  that 
the  simplicity  and  pacific  disposition  enjoined  by  the  tes 
timonies  of  the  Friends,  must  have  powerfully  contribu 
ted  to  the  preservation  of  social  order.  Could  principles 
like"  these — principles  which,  by  chaining  the  passions, 
restrain  the  chief  agents  of  human  misery,  be  brought 
into  general  and  effectual  operation,  our  jails  would  be 
empty,  our  criminal  tribunals  deserted,  and  prison  dis 
cipline  matter  of  curious  speculation,  rather  than  as  now 
a  subject  of  immense  practical  importance. 

What,  indeed,  on  the  score  of  morals  and  social  im 
provement,  might  not  be  hoped  for  from  a  system  which 
sought  to  destroy  the  current,  by  stopping  up  the  source 
of  vice  ?  How  profound  and  practical  is  the  wisdom  of 
that  memorable  provision  of  the  first  laws,  which  dicta 
ted  that  all  children  of  the  age  of  twelve  years  "  be  taught 
some  useful  trade  or  skill,  to  the  end  that  none  may  be 
idle,  but  the  poor  may  work  to  live,  and  the  rich,  if  they 
become  poor,  may  not  want !"  A  specific  is  here  fur 
nished  for  the  maladies  which  the  political  physician  is  re 
quired  to  treat,  more  sovereign  and  effectual  than  sangui 
nary  edicts,  or  the  rigid  sanctions  of  penal  enactments. 

It  may,  perhaps,  be  thought  that  a  state  of  society  so 
pure,  so  simple,  so  regular,  is  congenial  only  to  the  limit 
ed  scale  of  a  narrow  and  unambitious  community.  It  is 
true,  indeed,  that  the  theories  of  political  experimentalists 
have  seldom  been  fairly  tested  on  an  extensive  scale.  In 
not  a  few  of  its  features,  the  system  established  by  the 
Friends  of  Pennsylvania  resembles  the  beautiful  model 
attributed  to  the  genius  of  the  humane  and  enlightened 
Berkeley.  If  it  did  fiot  exhibit  the  rich  colourings,  the 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  301 

high-wrought  mouldings,  the  splendid  ornaments  of  some 
other  systems,  its  arrangements  were  more  convenient, 
its  foundations  were  deeper,  its  materials  more  solid;  it 
was  better  calculated  to  resist  the  shocks  of  faction,  and 
the  waves  of  time. 

It  is  but  a  just  tribute  to  her  Quaker  rulers  to  say,  that 
under  their  mild  and  equable  administration,  Pennsylva 
nia,  the  youngest  of  the  colonial  sisters,  advanced  with 
unparallelled  rapidity  in  her  career  of  prosperous  im 
provement.  Commerce  poured  her  treasures  into  the 
lap  of  peace.  The  canvass  of  her  merchants  whitened 
the  most  distant  waters.  Long  before  the  Parry s  and  the 
Franklins  of  our  day  had  achieved  immortality  by  their 
heroic  enterprise,  the  ship  Argo,  equipped  by  the  mer 
chants  of  Philadelphia,  sailed  on  the  perilous  voyage  of 
polar  discovery. 

With  reference  to  our  present  and  our  future  interests, 
the  review  of  that  portion  of  our  annals  to  which  your 
attention  has  been  invited,  is  not  without  profitable  in 
struction.  If  there  be  any  truth  in  experience,  any 
moral  in  history,  any  lesson  inscribed  on  the  tombs  of 
empire,  it  is  that  virtue  is  the  life  of  free  institutions. 
Virtue  was  emphatically  the  glory  of  our  fathers;  may 
it  long  continue  to  be  that  of  their  sons  !  And  as  a 
means  of  preserving  a  heritage  so  inestimable,  let  us  reve 
rence  the  memory,  and  cherish  the  principles,  and  emu 
late  the  actions  of  those  wise  and  good  men,  who  plant 
ed  the  tree  that  now  covers  us  with  its  broad  shade.  To 
look  back  upon  their  institutions,  to  retrace  with  his 
toric  step  the  paths  they  trod,  will  not  fail  to  animate,  in 
vigorate,  and  refresh.  Thus,  gentlemen,  may  your  so 
ciety  fulfil  a  higher  and  a  nobler  purpose  than  the  mere 
gratification  of  literary  curiosity.  It  may  fulfil  an  impor 
tant  duty  to  our  common  country. 
26 


302  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 


BY  J.  K.  MITCHELL. 

u  There  remaineth,  therefore,  a  rest  (Sabbatismos)  for  the  people  of  God." 

THE  Sabbath  morn  is  calm  and  clear, 
And  flowers  perfume  the  balmy  air 

Around  the  cottage  door; 
Beneath  the  spreading  oak's  dark  shade, 
In  Sunday's  tidy  garb  arrayed, 

Behold  the  pious  poor. 

The  weekly  toil  is  over  now, 
All  worldly  care  has  left  the  brow 

Of  him  who  loves  to  trace 
The  lesson  for  his  artless  child. 
His  Rosa,  tractable  and  mild — 

She  has  her  mother's  face! 

While  little  Will  stands  silent  by, 
With  hat  in  hand,  and  listening  eye, 

And  meditative  air; 
He  loves  his  Sabbath-teacher's  rule, 
And  longs  to  carry  to  the  school 

The  well-committed  prayer. 

See  saucy  Sally,  stick  in  hand, 
With  lifted  finger  gives  command, 
To  Snap,  at  home  to  stay; 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  303 

For,  well  the  sneaking  fellow  knew,  , 

He  made  a  noise  in  father's  pew, 
And  barked  the  other  day. 

On  trusty  donkey's  back  they  place 
The  honoured  grandsire  of  the  race, 

To  walk,  too  feeble  now; 
While  o'er  her  father's  hairless  head, 
The  daughter's  handkerchief  is  spread, 

To  shield  his  naked  brow. 

At  least,  this  once,  however  frail, 
To  go  to  church  he  cannot  fail, 

For  Mary  means  to-day 
To  dedicate  herself  to  God, 
And  tread  the  path  her  fathers  trod, 

And  he  for  her  must  pray. 

His  grandchild  solaced  his  decay, 
Illumined  his  declining  day, 

For  through  her  sunny  eye, 
He  loved  to  look  on  nature's  face, 
Kindled  into  a  richer  grace 

By  youthful  piety. 

The  youngling,  too,  by  all  carest 
Must  not  be  left  behind  the  rest: 

An  undivided  band, 
Imbued  with  love,  and  heavenly  grace, 
They  hasten  to  his  holy  place, 

To  honour  God's  command. 

Oh,  who  would  forfeit  such  a  joy 
As  gilds  the  face  of  that  sweet  boy, 

And  smooths  his  grandsire's  brow, 
And  beams  in  Rosa's  ardent  eyes, 
And  heaves  in  Mary's  pensive  sighs, 

For  all  earth  could  bestow? 


304  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

Yes,  blessed  Sabbath-morn,  thy  light 
Is  affluent  in  pure  delight, 
To  those  who  love  thy  rest; 
Beyond  thy  sun  a  heavenly  ray 
Adds  moral  lustre  to  the  day, 
And  shines  into  the  breast! 

That  lustre  brightens  dim  despair, 
And  makes  the  fairest  scene  more  fair, 

And  gilds  the  captive's  chain; 
Illumines  sickness,  freshens  health, 
Cheers  poverty,  enhances  wealth, 

And  dulls  the  edge  of  pain. 

There's  not  an  earthly  lot  too  low 
To  catch  thy  heart-consoling  glow — 

There's  not  a  lot  too  fair 
To  borrow  lustre  from  thy  ray, 
For  those  who  keep  thy  holy  day, 

And  love  the  house  of  prayer. 

Then,  reader,  do  not  close  the  book, 
Before  you  take  another  look 

At  such  a  scene  as  this! 
Will  such  a  bright  example  fail 
To  make  you  Sabbath's  morning  hail, 

And  welcome  Sabbath's  bliss? 


THE  PHILADELPHIA    BOOK.  305 


©3F 


BY  DR.  TOGNO. 


THE  approach  to  Bourdeaux  is  very  imposing:  its  fine 
Pharos,  its  spacious  squares,  planted  with  trees  and  well 
built  all  around,  its  stupendous  bridge,  which  Napoleon 
first  projected,  and  for  the  building  of  which  he  gave  five 
millions  of  francs  from  his  own  purse,  are  all  objects  that 
command  admiration.  This  bridge  is  one  of  the  boasts 
of  Napoleon,  although  it  has  since  been  finished  by  a  pri 
vate  company.  Every  thing  that  this  extraordinary  man 
has  ever  touched  is  impressed  with  that  stamp  of  gran 
deur  which  no  other  sovereign  will  ever  equal;  and,  if 
we  remark  any  thing  on  the  continent  of  Europe,  that  has 
that  stamp,  be  sure  that  it  has  been  planned  or  executed 
by  this  gigantic  innovator,  with  the  rapidity  of  thought; 
for  physical  obstacles  were  nothing  to  Napoleon.  I  am 
gratified  to  have  an  opportunity  to  mention  this  bridge, 
because  a  double  purpose  is  involved  in  its  construction; 
and  the  science  displayed  here  may  be  useful  to  us  in  the 
construction  of  railroads.  Passengers  are  admitted  on 
the  bridge,  as  on  every  other  structure  of  the  kind;  but 
there  are  two  galleries  in  the  very  body  of  it,  one  on 
each  side,  from  which  you  look  up  and  down  the  river, 
and  which  may  be  readily  converted  into  passages  for 
locomotive  engines,  without  interfering  with  the  horse 
carriages  above.  Such  a  bridge,  I  conceive,  might  be 
constructed  to  great  advantage  over  the  Schuylkill,  above 

26* 


306  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

the  falls.  What  is  still  more  remarkable  in  this  city,  and 
as  worthy  of  our  attention,  is  its  almshouse,  or  hospital. 
Its  construction  is  admirable;  it  is  spacious,  well  venti 
lated,  cleanly,  quiet;  and,  in  its  internal  economy,  com 
fort  and  even  grandeur,  if  grandeur  can  inhabit  such  a 
place,  it  surpasses  every  other  establishment  of  the  kind. 
The  justly  celebrated  naval  hospital  of  Plymouth,  and 
that  of  Rochefort,  are  in  many  respects  inferior  to  it; 
and  when  we  compare  it  to  our  old  almshouse,  we  per 
ceive  that,  in  that  of  Bourdeaux,  genius  and  foresight 
pervade  the  most  minute  details,  while  in  the  latter,  ig 
norance  of  the  object  of  such  an  institution,  is  visible 
every  where.  Had  a  medical  board  been  consulted  res 
pecting  the  best  mode  ol  constructing  such  an  establish 
ment,  and  their  advice  followed,  instead  of  simply  that 
of  an  architect,  and  a  few  carpenters  and  bricklayers,  we 
should  not  have  now  an  immense  pile  of  stone,  brick  and 
mortar,  more  hurtful  in  its  results,  than  beneficial  to  its 
inmates.  But,  the  opinion  of  the  wise,  (and  I  call  the 
medical  profession,  at  least  in  their  own  affairs,  the  truly 
enlightened  class  of  mankind,)  Cassandralike,  is  never 
listened  to.  But  in  the  case  of  the  new  almshouse,  on 
the  other  side  of  the  Schuylkill,  the  Board  of  Physicians 
has  been  wisely  consulted  as  to  its  structure,  and,  there 
fore,  in  this  instance,  we  have  reasons  to  congratulate 
ourselves.  I  regret,  however,  that  for  the  sake  of  humani 
ty  the  plan  of  this  hospital  was,  perhaps,  unknown  to  the 
architect  and  medical  gentlemen  consulted,  and  who  de 
signed  and  superintended  the  building  of  it.  I  had  the 
good  fortune  to  become  acquainted  with  J.  Berguer,  the 
admirable  and  talented  architect  of  this  stupendous  work. 
I  complimented  him  about  it,  and  he  was  so  kind  as  to 
give  me  a  set  of  all  the  plans  of  it,  which  I  hope  may 
prove  useful  to  our  country  in  some  future  undertaking 
of  the  kind. 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  307 

The  theatre  of  Bourdeaux,  as  a  piece  of  architecture, 
is  a  subject  of  continual  admiration  to  all  strangers.     It 
is  the  favourite  theme  of  the  natives,  as  the  waterworks 
of  Philadelphia  are  with  us.     Apropos  of  the  theatre,  I 
must  inform  you  of  my  good  fortune.     While  passing 
under  the  colonnades  of  this  edifice,  I  remarked  a  heap  of 
books,  pellmell  on  the  pavement,  and  a  vender  crying: 
"  A  six  sous  le  volume!  Allons,  Messieurs,  achetez!"  I 
stopped  to  examine  more  closely  the  literary  chaos,  and, 
behold!   here   I   found   many  valuable  ancient  medical 
works,  for  which  I  had  vainly  inquired  at  Paris  from 
various  booksellers!  Seeing  this,  I  made  short  work,  and 
took  possession  of  seventy  volumes,  well  bound,  at  six 
sous  each,  for  which  I  should  very  willingly  have  given 
a  dollar.     This  is  to  me  a  princedom;  and  it  did  not  fail 
to  put  me  in  a  good  humour  with  Bourdeaux,  and  with 
the  individual  who  was  pleased  to  die  and  leave  me  the 
books.     My  treasure  is  now  wafted  over  Neptune's  do 
minions.     My  journey  from  Bourdeaux  to  Toulouse  was 
pleasant  enough,  and  has  presented  to  me  many  subjects 
for  meditation:  but  I  shall  be  prevented,  by  want  of  space 
and  time,  from  communicating  them  at  present.     An  an 
ecdote,  however,  amused  me  so  much  on  this  route,  that 
I  cannot  resist  the  temptation  of  narrating  it.     1  was  in 
the  Coupe  with  a  young  American,  my  travelling  com 
panion,  wben,  stopping  on  the  road  at  Moissac,  a  gentle 
man,  unknown  to  us,  was  handed  in.    For  a  Frenchman, 
he  was  at  first  very  cold,  and  far  from  being  addicted  to 
dicacity.     My  companion,  having  spoken  in  English  to 
me,  aroused  his  curiosity  at  hearing  the  name  of  America 
mentioned.    Then  he  was  curious  to  understand  who  we 
could  be,  and  grew  animated  in  the  conversation.     He 
turned  to  naval  subjects  and  commerce,  and,  of  course, 
hearing  me  talk  so  wisely  upon  these,  topics,  took  me  for 


308  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

a  sea  captain.  But,  for  the  discomfiture  of  my  inquisitive 
man,  the  conversation  soon  after  turned  upon  education, 
and,  from  the  remarks  I  made,  he  then  concluded  that 
he  was  mistaken  in  his  former  opinion,  and  took  me  now 
for  a  travelling  Mentor,  and  the  young  American  for  my 
Telemachus.  But,  the  perplexities  of  my  man  did  not 
stop  here;  new  scientific  subjects  rolled  before  us,  while 
we  were  rolling  in  the  diligence;  and,  from  my  saying 
that  I  was  travelling  in  search  of  scientific  information, 
he  then  supposed  me  a  mere  traveller,  and  was  again  cut 
loose  on  a  sea  of  uncertainty.  But,  at  last,  when  to  my 
former  assertion,  I  added  that  I  was  particularly  in  search 
of  medical  knowledge,  and  that  I  was  a  medical  man,  he, 
only  then,  was  relieved  from  the  continual  perplexity  in 
which  he  found  himself.  This  gentleman's  name  is 
Daiguy,  attorney  of  the  king  in  this  district,  and  a  well 
informed  and  gentlemanly  person.  He  was  very  kind 
to  us  while  at  Toulouse;  although  we  were  perfect  stran 
gers  to  him,  he  voluntarily  offered  his  services  as  a  cice 
rone.  He  pointed  out  to  us  especially  the  famous  bridge 
built  under  Louis  XIII.,  which  cost  immense  sums  of 
money;  and  Louis,  on  hearing  that  it  was  finished,  asked  if 
it  was  built  with  crown  jewels;  showing  that  under  the 
old  as  well  as  the  modern  Bourbons,  the  finances  of 
France  have  been  always  wretchedly  administered.  Not 
so  under  Napoleon,  who  personally  researched,  exam 
ined,  and  confronted  every  public  document,  in  the  least 
questionable,  that  was  financial  in  design  or  detail. 

The  greatest  public  work  of  our  times,  which  I  saw 
on  leaving  Toulouse,  is  the  Languedoc  Canal.  I  embark 
ed  at  Toulouse,  and  proceeded  in  its  line  of  canal  boats 
for  Bezieres.  This  work  is  truly  worthy  of  the  Romans, 
during  the  era  of  imperial  magnificence,  and  is  famous 
in  the  annals  of  modern  internal  improvements.  It  is, 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  309 

even  now,  the  greatest  and  most  perfect  undertaking  in 
Europe,  notwithstanding  the  progress  of  the  arts  and 
sciences.  It  must  be  remembered,  that  this  canal  was 
begun  at  the  time  when  works  of  this  nature  were  im 
perfectly  understood,  and  every  thing  was  to  be  created 
by  the  projector.  The  great  difficulty  to  be  surmounted 
here,  was  not  in  cutting  through  hills  or  avoiding  marshes, 
instead  of  going  through  them,  and  by  so  doing  spending 
millions  uselessly,  as  it  has  been  done  in  the  case  of  the 
Chesapeake  and  Delaware  Canal.  All  this  was  wisely 
avoided;  but  it  was  the  source  that  was  to  supply  the  ne 
cessary  water  at  the  culminating  point,  six  hundred  feet 
above  the  level  of  the  ocean,  that  constituted  the  great 
difficulty.  When  M.  Riquet,  Seigneur  de  Bonrepos,  the 
projector  of  the  canal,  first  conceived  the  happy  idea  of 
forming  a  vast  reservoir  of  water  on  the  Montagne  Noire, 
a  place  five  leagues  from  the  culminating  point  of  this 
canal,  he,  like  Archimedes,  exclaimed, "  I  have  it!  I  have 
it!  The  thing  is  done!"  But,  although  the  mother  idea 
of  this  stupendous  work  was  conceived,  still  it  was  far, 
very  far,  from  being  easily  accomplished.  Many  had  been 
the  plans  given  for  this  canal,  but  none  had  been  thought 
feasible;  the  one  of  M.  Riquet,  however,  was  acknow 
ledged  by  the  commissioners  to  be  possible.  He  remarks 
on  this  subject,  in  a  letter  to  Colbert,  that  "  La  pens6e 
premiere  m'en  vint  d  Saint  Germain;  j'en  songeai  les 
moyens,  et,  quoique  fort  eloigne,  ma  reverie  s'est  trou- 
v6e  juste  sur  les  lieux.  Le  niveau  m'a  confirme  ce  que 
mon  imagination  m'avait  dit  a  deux  cents  lieux  d'  ici." 
There  is  a  very  curious  fact  attached  to  the  inventor  of 
this  canal.  M.  Riquet  is  a  descendant  of  the  noble  Flor 
entine  family  of  Arrighetti,  which  name  by  emigrating 
to  France  was  corrupted  into  Riquetti,  and  thence  into 
Riquet.  But  now,  the  present  General  Andreossi,  descen- 


310  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

dant  of  an  Italian  geometrician  of  that  name  and  joint 
commissioner  of  the  canal,  claims  for  his  ancestor  the  glo 
ry  of  the  enterprise.  So  that  the  invention  of  the  plan 
of  this  canal  and  its  execution  is  contended  between  two 
Italians;  and  it  is  in  reality  to  the  descendant  of  an  Italian 
that  France  owes  the  happy  execution  of  the  idea  of 
uniting  the  two  seas  by  a  canal,  which  is  an  inexhausti 
ble  source  of  wealth.  At  the  culminating  point  there  is 
a  feeder  which  supplies  the  water  to  the  canal,  and  the 
water  of  which  comes  from  a  basin  at  five  leagues'  dis 
tance.  It  is  enclosed  by  mountains  and  immense  walls, 
and  gathers  all  the  waters  of  many  rivers  and  torrents 
which  have  been  turned  out  of  their  natural  beds  into 
new  channels.  This  basin  is  so  large  that,  after  filling  the 
whole  canal  in  all  its  extent,  the  loss  of  water  in  the 
reservoir  is  not  felt.  The  beds  of  many  rivers  pass  be 
neath  the  canal  and  under  bridges, which  serve  as  aque 
ducts  to  the  bed  of  the  canal  itself;  so  that  while  some 
rivers  have  been  turned  out  of  their  channels,  others 
have  been  compelled  to  the  service  of  man,  levels  found, 
mountains  perforated,  difficulties  of  every  kind  subdued, 
and  every  physical  obstacle  has  yielded  to  inventive  ge 
nius.  With  reference  to  all  these  difficulties  surmounted, 
Riquet  wrote  to  the  Minister  Colbert: 

"  Par  prejuge  on  me  qualifie  le  Moise  du  Languedoc;  toute  fois  avec 
cette  difference,  dit — on,  que  Moise  ne  fit  jaillir  que  des  sources  pour  de 
petites  fontaines,  et  que  j'en  dispose  pour  de  grandes  rivieres." 

' 

The  canal  is  large  and  well  built,  with  a  fine  walk  on 
each  side  planted  with  trees,  which  is  a  delightful  pro 
menade  for  the  passengers.  It  is  well  constructed  in  all 
its  details.  There  is  a  very  ingenious  use  made  of  the 
bullrush,  an  aquatic  plant  growing  in  marshes.  It  is 
planted  along  both  sides  of  the  canal,  just  at  the  water's 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  311 

edge,  and  where  there  is  always  the  greatest  detrition  of 
the  canal  by  the  passage  of  the  boats  and  the  movement 
of  the  water,  which  by  this  means  is  completely  prevent 
ed.  I  never  saw  this  plant  thus  usefully  employed  in  our 
country.     I  hope  these  remarks  will  not  go  unnoticed 
by  the  superintendents  of  our  various  canals.    This  plant 
is  cut  and  trimmed  every  year,  so  that  it  is  not  only  use 
ful,  but  becomes  very  ornamental  to  the  banks.  But  even 
with  all  these  improvements,  canals  will  never  be  equal 
to  railroads  for  expedition  and  cheapness  of  construc 
tion.     In  this  instance  a  railroad  might  have  been  made 
in  half  the   time,  and  with  one  fourth  of  the  money, 
to  enable  the  traveller  to  go  over  the  same  distance  in 
one  fourth  of  the  time;  and,  by  this  means,  the  union  of 
the  two  seas  might  have  been  as  effectually  made  as  by 
a  canal;  for  the  ultimate  object  of  all  this  immense  work 
is  to  transport  merchandise  from  the  ocean  to  the  Medi 
terranean,  and  vice  versa.     We  arrived  at  last  at  Mont- 
pellier,  where,  after  seeing  what  was  most  interesting  to 
me  personally  and  professionally,  I  went  to  see  the  libra 
ry  belonging  to  the  medical  school  of  the  city.     Here  I 
was  shown  a  very  curious  and  interesting  manuscript  of 
Torquato  Tasso  being  the  first  plan  of  the  different  ar 
guments  of  his  poem  the  Gerusalemme  Liberata.    The 
argument  ot  the  first  canto  begins  thus 

"  Gik  volgea  il  sesto  anno  che  i  principi  Cristiani  erano  passati."  etc. 
The  beginning  of  the  sixth  stanza,  same  canto,  is: 

"  II  sesto  anno  volgea  che  in  Oriente 

"  Passo  il  popol  Cristiano  a  1'alta  impresa,"  etc. 

With  a  very  slight  transposition  of  his  original  prose 
argument,  this  divine  poet  has  formed  the  richest  poetry, 


312  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

and  most  harmonious  versification  of  the  Sweet  South; 
which,  without  being  overloaded  with  historical  facts,  is 
both  instructive  and  full  of  the  most  brilliant  poetical 
images.  You  may  have  some  curiosity  to  know  why  this 
manuscript  was  found  at  Montpellier.  I  was  myself  no 
less  astonished;  and,  upon  inquiry  from  the  Dean  of  the 
University,  M.  Dubreuil,  I  learned  that  it  was  sent  by  the 
minister,  Chaptal,  who  had  been  raised  by  Napoleon, 
from  a  professorship  in  that  university  to  the  station  of  a 
minister.  You  know  that  Napoleon,  in  his  various  inva 
sions  of  his  mother  country,  had  carried  away  the  most 
valuable,  and,  at  the  same  time,  interesting  manuscripts, 
from  the  Italian  libraries.  This  was  one  of  those  stolen, 
at  that  time,  from  that  ever  prolific  mother  of  genius — far- 
famed  Italy.  If  she  were  only  free,  thousands  of  her  sons 
would  arise  to  illustrate  and  immortalise  her  once  more; 
and,  for  ages  yet  to  come,  the  new  barbarians  might 
plunder  again  the  masterpieces  of  her  sons,  to  enlighten 
and  civilise  the  Goths  and  Vandals  yet  uncreated. 

While  at  Montpellier,  I  learnt  another  singular  circum 
stance  concerning  Italian  literature,  which  I  never  saw 
mentioned.  It  is  this.  You  must  be  aware  that  the  Coun 
tess  of  Albany,  during  her  residence  in  Italv,  became 
Alfieri's  mistress,  as  the  Countess  Guiccioli  was  Byron's. 
Alfieri,  dying,  left  to  his  widow,  who  was  also  the  relict 
of  the  last  unworthy  Stuart,  (for  it  is  known  that  they 
were,  soon  after  their  first  acquaintance,  secretly  married, 
to  quiet  the  conscience  of  her  ladyship,)  his  library, 
which  was  very  select,  and  contained  a  great  many  valu 
able  books,  especially  all  the  editions  ever  made  of  Al 
fieri's  works,  as  well  as  all  his  manuscripts.  After  the 
death  of  Alfieri,  the  Countess  took  a  fancy,  so  fame  re 
lates,  to  a  French  painter  from  Montpellier,  called  Fabre, 
a  man  of  some  talent  as  an  artist,  and  a  friend  of  the  poet. 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  313 

Her  ladyship,  contrary,  no  doubt,  to  the  wishes  of  the 
great  Italian  bard,  left,  at  her  death,  Alfieri's  library, 
manuscripts,  and  all  her  own  books  to  M.  Fabre,  who, 
proud  of  such  rich  spoils,  left  Italy,  his  adopted  country, 
where  he  had  learned  to  hold  the  crayon,  and  to  wield 
the  brush,  whose  very  sky,  and  the  air  he  breathed,  had 
inspired  him  with  the  feelings  of  a  painter,  to  return  to 
Montpellier,  to  the  authorities  of  which  city  he  presented 
his  booty,  books,  manuscripts,  pictures,  and  all,  as  well 
as  a  valuable  collection  of  pictures,  collected  by  himself, 
and  works  of  his  own  pencil.  So  exasperated  am  I  at  the 
Countess  of  Albany,  for  thus  disposing  of  the  library  of 
the  Italian  bard,  who  is  the  very  type  of  the  present  age, 
that,  were  she  alive,  I  could  travel  a  thousand  leagues  to 
unfold  my  mind,  and  display  the  utmost  degradation  of 
a  degraded  dynasty.  May  she  meet  forever,  hereafter, 
the  just  punishment  of  this  black  and  treacherous  deed, 
the  piercing  and  reproachful  looks  of  the  disembodied 
spirit,  who,  had  he  thought  for  a  moment  that  his  books, 
which  he  so  dearly  loved,  would  ultimately  have  this 
Gallic  destination,  would,  certainly,  have  ordered  them 
to  be  burnt;  to  such  a  degree  did  he  detest  the  French, 
as  a  nation,  although  Fabre,  a  renegade,  was  united  to 
him  in  friendship.  Among  other  things  in  the  Muste 
Fabre,  as  it  is  called,  there  is  an  excellent  bust  in  marble 
of  Alfieri,  and  a  portrait,  by  Fabre  himself,  of  the  same 
poet,  both  very  good.  The  portrait  is  the  original,  copied 
to  make  that  fine  engraving,  which  we  see  at  the  head  of 
the  finest  Florentine  edition  of  his  works.  There  is  also 
a  very  good  portrait  of  Antonio  Canova,  the  sculptor,  by 
Fabre.  In  conclusion,  there  is,  at  Montpellier,  in  the 
university,  another  interesting  production  of  the  arts,  sto 
len  from  Italy;  I  mean  the  antique  bust,  in  bronze,  of  the 
old  and  renowned  Hippocrates. 
27 


314  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 


BY  W.  B.  TAPPAN. 

NEW  JERSEY!  thy  blue  hills  are  fair  to  the  vision, 
Serene  are  the  beauties  thy  valleys  display; 
Thy  streams  are  romantic,  thy  gardens  elysian, 
And  dear  to  this  bosom  thy  sea-beat  CAPE  MAY. 

How  pleasant  to  wander  where  nought  but  old  ocean 
Is  heard  interrupting  calm  nature's  repose; 
Or  gaily  to  mingle  where  pleasure  in  motion 
Waits  on  the  first  day-beam  and  hallows  its  close. 

Sweet  innocence,  beauty  and  fashion  uniting, 
See  the  votaries  of  health  and  good-feeling  appear; 
Gay  wit  wreaths  the  bowl  with  rich  humour  inviting, 
And  Pleasure  is  queen  of  the  festival  here. 

How  tranquil  the  scene,  when  Atlantic's  proud  billow 
Sleeps  calm  'neath  the  moon-ray!  When  tempests  deform; 
How  truly  majestic,  as  roused  from  his  pillow, 
The  god  of  the  waters  careers  on  the  storm: 

When  deep  calls  to  deep  and  the  surge  mocks  the  mountain, 
And  the  voice  of  the  tempest  is  heard  on  the  main, 
When  the  storm-cloud,  in  anger,  has  opened  its  fountain, 
And  the  torrent  has  deluged  the  valley  and  plain! 

Soon  the  gale  dies  in  whispers,  the  billows  are  bounding, 
The  moans  of  the  tempest  in  sympathy  cease; 
While  I  gaze  at  new  beauties  the  prospect  surrounding, 
My  heart  is  expanded  to  pleasure  and  peace, 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  315 

Though  thy  blue  hills,  NEW  JERSEY!  are  fair  to  the  vision, 
Unnumbered  the  beauties  thy  valleys  display; 
Though  thy  streams  are  romantic,  thy  gardens  elysian, 
Yet  lovelier,  I  reckon,  thy  sea-beat  CAPE  MAY. 


316  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 


BY  B.  H.  COATES. 


I  CONFESS  I  am  disgusted  with  the  ferocious  and  malig 
nant  style  in  which  much  of  the  criticism  of  the  day 
deals  with  those  unfortunate  individuals  who  attempt  to 
amuse  the  public  with  their  efforts  at  poetry.  In  hand 
ling  the  works  of  those  whose  reputation  is  already  es 
tablished,  we  observe  something  like  attention  to  the  rules 
of  ancient  criticism  and  modern  politeness;  but  when 
the  reviewer  gets  hold  of  an  obscure  writer  or  one  whom 
he  chooses  to  consider  as  a  dunce,  those  principles  of  con 
duct  by  which  we  are  taught  as  a  duty  to  avoid  unneces 
sarily  wounding  the  feelings  of  our  neighbour,  seem  to  be 
entirely  dismissed  from  the  mind,  and  the  unfortunate 
author  is  handed  over  to  bull  dogs  to  be  baited,  with  as 
little  remorse,  as  if,  instead  of  being  a  harmless  proser, 
he  were  a  high  offender  against  the  peace  and  welfare  of 
the  community.  He  seems  to  be,  habitually  and  as  a 
thing  of  course,  regarded  as  a  criminal.  "  Judex  dam- 
natur  cum  nocens  absolvitur,"  is  a  motto  which  has  not 
adorned  the  front  of  a  celebrated  journal  without  a  clear 
application  and  a  steady,  unsparing  enforcement.  The 
unlucky  wretch  who  is  guilty  of  dulness,  or,  what  is  the 
same  thing,  who  belongs  to  a  different  political  party,  or 
has  given  private  offence  to  one  of  the  leading  reviewers, 
is  not  even  held  entitled  to  the  refinements  of  modern 
penal  jurisprudence.  Unlike  the  murderer,  the  offend- 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  317 

ing  scribbler,  thus  tried  and  condemned  without  a  jury 
of  his  peers,  is  subjected  not  only  to  execution  but  to  the 
torture ;  the  utmost  ingenuity  of  authorship  being  tasked 
to  inflict  the  rack  more  severely,  and  to  awaken  the  feel 
ings  of  the  lacerated  sufferer  to  the  utmost  pitch  of  tor 
ment. 

Of  this  it  would  not  be  difficult  to  cite  abundant  in 
stances.  I  shall  not,  however,  occupy  time  with  quoting 
what  is  so  very  familiar.  It  is  still  harder,  that  the  un 
fortunate  writer  has  to  submit  not  only  to  the  stings  of 
wit  and  genius,  but  to  the  coarse  and  blundering  assaults 
of  rival  dulness.  It  is  some  satisfaction  to  have  it  said, 
"  JEnsese  magni  dextra  cadis."  The  pangs  of  the  wound 
are  greatly  softened  by  the  fine  edge  and  delicate  polish 
of  the  weapon;  and  even  the  sufferer,  if  nature  and  edu 
cation  have  endowed  him  with  taste,  can  occasionally 
derive  some  pleasure  from  the  grace  and  dexterity  with 
which  it  has  been  wielded.  Of  this  he  is  deprived  when 
the  attack  is  made  by  an  inferior  hand  and  with  an  im 
perfect  instrument.  Thus  the  rusty,  jagged  and  shape 
less  blade  of  the  Malay  kreese,  roughly  hammered  out 
of  soft  iron,  inflicts  an  incomparably  more  painful  and 
rankling  wound  than  the  finest  scimitar  of  Damascus.  A 
tolerable  example  of  the  temper  with  which  one  unsuc 
cessful  writer  occasionally  views  his  fellows,  may  be 
found  in  the  verses  I  have  appropriated  as  a  motto. 
They  are  selected  from  a  recent  production  which  has 
lately  fallen  under  my  eye,  not  certainly  from  their  in 
trinsic  poetical  beauty,  or  their  grammatical  correctness, 
but  from  their  affording  a  fair  specimen  of  the  virulent 
style,  and  sufficient  to  exemplify  what  I  have  in  view. 
What  can  there  be  in  the  transitory  poetry  of  the  day  to 
justify  the  expression  of  such  emotions?  Is  it  possible, 
that  the  mere  fact  of  having  written  a  number  of  poet- 

27* 


318  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

ical  pieces,  of  various  merits  and  demerits,  the  majority 
certainly  not  inferior  to  those  of  the  author  who  express 
es  himself  in  this  vehement  manner,  can  ever  justify 
professions  of  hatred  and  contempt,  and  the  use  of  re 
proachful  and  insulting  language,  such  as  by  unanimous 
consent  is  forbidden  in  society? 

We  have  heard  of  a  politician  who,  in  the  heat  of  an 
angry  debate,  was  unceremoniously  addressed  with  the 
significant  words,  "  You  lie."  Our  citizen  was  not  de 
ficient  in  that  virtue,  so  necessary  to  a  statesman,  self- 
command.  "  Stop  there!"  he  said, te  Let  us  argue  that! 
If  you  will  only  listen  to  me,  I  will  undertake  to  con 
vince  you  that  I  did  not  lie  !"  In  imitation  of  this  rea 
sonable  disputant,  I  will  endeavour  to  point  out  some  of 
the  arguments  which  might  be  used  by  an  unlucky  dunce 
alleged  to  be  taken  in  the  act  of  violating  the  good  ^taste 
of  the  community  by  the  perpetration  of  perfectly  de 
testable  verses,  in  order  to  protect  himself  against  the 
severity  of  criticism  and  disarm  the  anger  of  the  outra 
ged  public.  He  should  move  court  in  mitigation  of  sen 
tence;  and  then  represent  that  in  reality  the  injury  to  the 
commonwealth  was  not  by  any  means  so  great  as  has 
been  represented.  The  writing  of  bad  poetry  "  breaks  no 
man's  leg,  nor  picks  his  pocket."  His  wares  are  put 
in  the  market  precisely  as  is  done  with  any  others,  and 
there  exists  no  more  reason  why  a  man  should  be  punish 
ed  for  offering  bad  poetry  for  sale  than  for  keeping  cloth 
of  an  inferior  quality,  or  selling  a  badly  made  coat. 
«  Caveat  emptor."  No  man  is  obliged  to  buy.  He 
who  purchases  takes  the  article  at  his  own  risk,  and  if  he 
"like  not  the  tragedy,"  he  may  throw  it  down.  Be 
sides,  even  if  the  individual  who  has  bought  a  volume 
think  himself  under  obligation,  from  the  incidental  cir 
cumstance  of  having  purchased  it,  to  peruse  the  whole, 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  319 

and  be  thereby  put  to  serious  loss  and  damage  of  his 
time,  yet  even  then,  it  may  be  considered  that  the  amount 
of  the  latter  consumed  is  usually  small,  that  it  is  not  al 
ways  certain  that  said  time  would  otherwise  have  been 
better  employed,  and  that  it  is  not  improbable  that  a  con 
siderable  proportion  of  the  readers  who  shall  so  act,  will 
not  receive  any  very  acutely  painful  sensation  from  the 
violence  thus  done  to  their  good  taste.  He  may  besides 
plead  his  utter  innocence  of  any  evil  design  in  the  pro 
duction  of  the  poetry  in  question ;  he  having  sincerely 
intended  to  write  only  that  which  was  really  good  and 
sufficient  for  the  public  taste,  and  bona  fide  entertain 
ed  the  opinion,  at  the  time  of  publication,  that  the  verses 
in  question  did  really  possess  the  adequate  merit  to  which 
we  have  here  alluded.  Nor  could,  I  think,  a  reasonable 
court  fail  to  admit  that  these  pleadings  would  greatly 
abate  their  estimate  of  the  extreme  criminality  of  the  ac 
tion. 

But  to  drop  the  impersonation  of  the  unhappy  culprit, 
I  will  proceed,  in  my  own  proper  style,  to  express  the 
reasons  why  I  think  acrimony  in  judging  of  even  bad 
poetry  unsuitable  and  unbecoming.  The  writing  of  po 
etry  is  essentially  a  noble  and  honourable  task.  It  is  an 
attempt  to  communicate  an  innocent  and  elevated  plea 
sure ;  and  is  rarely  executed  without  a  consentaneous 
effort  to  improve,  or  at  least  to  refine  the  mind.  He  who 
eminently  succeeds  in  it  has  been  held  in  honour  in  all 
ages  of  the  world.  As  has  been  lately  remarked  by  a 
critic,  in  speaking  of  Lord  Byron,  the  death  of  a  great 
poet  is  felt  as  a  more  personal  loss,  by  each  member  of 
the  community,  than  that  of  any  man  of  political  dis 
tinction.  The  successful  and  celebrated  bard  winds  him 
self  into  the  feelings  of  the  reader,  supplies  him  with 
new  ideas,  and  awakens  his  most  concealed  sympathies  ; 


320  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

filling,  in  short,  the  place  of  a  private  friend.  Such  an 
individual  then,  is  not  only  honoured  but  loved.  He 
contributes  largely  to  the  enjoyment  of  his  fellows,  and 
is  accordingly  rewarded  by  them.  Now,  what  is  the  ex 
tent  of  the  offence  committed  by  an  unsuccessful  imita 
tor  ?  Led  by  that  very  common,  if  not  almost  universal 
source  of  error,  an  undue  estimate  of  his  own  powers, 
he  has  undertaken  to  amuse  the  public  !  he  has  attempt 
ed  to  give  a  refined  and  honourable  pleasure  !  he  has  had 
the  presumption  to  think  that  what  cost  him  labour  and 
time,  is  worthy  to  fill  up  a  few  of  the  idle  moments  of 
others,  and  he  has  accordingly  induced  a  bookseller  to 
multiply  copies  of  it,  and  make  their  existence  known  ! 
For  this  imprudence  he  is  punished  by  disappointment ; 
he  experiences  the  mortification  of  neglect :  he  finds  that 
what  cost  him  so  much  trouble  and  was  taken  to  be  the 
offspring  of  a  moment  of  high  inspiration,  is  not  consid 
ered  by  the  public  as  worthy  of  the  languid  glances  of  a 
few  unemployed  minutes  ;  he  experiences  the  silent  and 
cutting  conviction  of  his  inferiority  in  natural  faculties 
and  influential  rank  to  the  writers  whom  he  had  hoped 
to  equal  if  not  to  excel.  And,  to  aggravate  his  misfor 
tune,  he  is  an  individual  belonging  to  a  peculiarly  sensi 
tive  class;  it  has  been  for  years  his  professional  task  to  ex 
cite  and  to  preserve  in  their  utmost  acuteness  all  those 
emotions  of  his  mind,  which  the  habits  of  ordinary  busi 
ness  are  calculated  to  blunt.  In  order  to  work  upon  the 
feelings  of  others,  he  has  intentionally  kept  his  own  sen 
sations  of  pain  in  the  liveliest  exercise.  "  Si  vis  me 
flere,  dolendum  est  primum  ipsi  tibi,"  was  the  precept 
of  the  critic ;  and  he  has  put  it  in  the  most  complete  ex 
ecution.  To  find  himself,  in  addition  to  this,  treated,  and 
that  habitually,  with  a  rudeness  of  language  and  style 
which  implies  that  he  is  not  considered  entitled  to  the 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  321 

ordinary  respect  due  to  a  gentleman,  is  indeed  addition 
ally  wounding  to  the  individual  himself,  but,  as  there  is 
no  retaliation,  is  not  very  honourable  to  the  manliness  of 
the  reviewer. 

If  we  examine  the  office  and  duty  of  the  latter,  we 
shall  not,  I  think,  find  any  new  motives  to  confirm  us  in 
our  admiration  of  the  brutal  style  of  criticism.  The 
general  obligation  of  a  reviewer  or  other  critic,  as  I  un 
derstand  it,  is  not  to  punish,  but  to  discriminate — he  is 
not  employed  as  an  executioner,  nor  even  as  a  constable, 
but  as  a  judge.  The  importance  of  his  office  is  certainly 
very  great.  The  larger  mass  of  the  reading  public  are 
too  much  occupied  with  business  or  amusement  to  be  able 
to  peruse  more  than  a  very  small  portion  of  the  books 
that  come  out  ;  and  the  influence  which  may  be  exerted 
on  the  selection  of  those  they  do  read,  by  a  critic,  him 
self  generally  attended  to,  and  speaking  with  the  autho 
rity  conferred  by  talents  and  learning,  must  naturally,  till 
it  meets  with  contradiction,  be  almost  unbounded.  And 
when  an  authority  of  this  class  does  clash  with  its  com 
petitors,  it  is  generally  about  the  works  of  individuals 
who  are  the  political  or  other  rivals  of  the  editors;  leav 
ing  the  great  mass  of  literature  to  the  operation*  of  ordi 
nary  causes.  The  public  are  habitually  influenced  in 
their  opinions  by  these  tribunals  to  a  very  great  degree 
indeed,  and  consider  their  perusal  as  a  short  cut  to  a 
great  amount  of  knowledge,  which  most  persons  have  no 
time  to  acquire  in  any  other  form. 

Of  how  much  importance,  then,  is  it  that  these  duties 
should  be  faithfully  performed.  From  how  much  useful 
knowledge  or  agreeable  reading  may  an  unfaithful  re 
viewer  debar  us,  as  effectually  as  if  by  the  combustion  of 
a  library  !  By  the  simple  disapprobation  of  an  influential 
tribunal,  the  public  are  prevented  from  inquiring  ;  there 


322  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

is  no  appeal,  and  all  future  efforts  of  the  same  author  are 
blasted  with  the  reproach  of  dulness,  and  almost  depri 
ved  of  the  utter  possibility  of  a  retrieval.  Now,  when 
we  reflect  upon  the  ordinary  progress  of  authorship,  this 
will  appear  manifestly  unjust.  There  are  scarcely  any 
instances  of  an  author  having  met  with  brilliant  success 
in  his  first  attempt.  Voltaire,  Pope,  Byron,  and  a  num 
ber  of  others,  who  afterwards  reached  the  highest  dis 
tinction,  met  at  first  with  disheartening  failures  ;  and  had 
they  been  crushed  in  the  bud,  had  excessive  severity  suc 
ceeded  in  discouraging  them  from  all  future  efforts,  I  will 
not  now  say  what  a  loss  to  mankind  !  but  what  a  shameful 
injustice  to  the  youthful  aspirants  ! 

It  is  time  now  to  draw  this  essay  to  a  conclusion ; 
and  I  will  only  recapitulate  by  saying,  that  I  do  not  mean 
to  object  to  candid  and  rigid  criticism  ;  but  only  to  the 
manifestations  of  ill-nature,  cruelty,  and  a  partisan  spirit, 
when  the  task  is  executed.  I  maintain  that  justice  should 
be  done  to  the  merits  of  the  weakest  writer  whenever 
his  productions  are  noticed  at  all ;  and  that  bitter  and 
sweeping  condemnations  of  the  whole  of  a  candidate's 
productions  are  just  as  unsuitable  to  the  true  character  of 
criticism  as  those  nauseous  and  inflated  panegyrics,  which 
we  occasionally  find  inserted  in  the  daily  sheets,  to  aid 
in  the  circulation  of  trash  and  mawkishness.  Dulness 
and  imbecility  should  undoubtedly  be  discouraged  from 
wasting  their  own  time  and  that  of  the  public  ;  but  the 
censure  should  be  founded  upon  the  real  merits  of  the 
case,  and  not  depend  upon  political  partisanship,  the  wish 
es  of  a  bookseller,  or  the  personal  dislikes  of  an  editor. 
And  above  all  things,  critics,  in  the  utmost  severity  of 
their  indignation,  should  never  forget  that  they  are  bound 
as  much  as  any  other  mortals  by  the  common  rules  of 
humanity  and  politeness. 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  323 


BY  T.  H.  STOCKTON. 

GENIUS  of  Poetry  !  thou  noblest  born  ! 

Thy  themes  are  as  thy  joys — rich  and  sublime  ! 

Creation  is  thy  range;  where'er  a  star 

Sends  forth  a  ray,  thy  wing  is  wont  to  fly. 

And  oft,  where  never  rolled  an  orb,  away 

In  solitary,  unillumined  gloom, 

Thou  boldest  high  communion  with  thy  God. 

His  omnipresent  pow'r  and  tender  love 

Delight  thy  musing  moments,  and  thy  harp 

Is  richest  and  most  eloquent  in  praise, 

Thy  quick  perception  gladdens  in  events, 

To  others  hid  ;  thou  knowest  sounds  and  views 

Unheard,  unnoticed  by  the  grosser-born. 

Where'er  thy  pinions  wave,  new  pleasures  rise 

Sweet  in  thy  breast,  and  eye  and  ear,  and  all 

Thy  ravish' d  senses  wonder  and  admire. 

The  music  of  the  spheres  is  heard  by  thee, 

And  angels  ne'er  may  know  its  richest  tones, 

Delighting  thee; — thou  see'st  a  purer  light 

In  ev'ry  beam,  than  falls  on  other  eyes; 

Colours  have  finer  shades  than  others  see, 

By  thee  perceived — and  when  the  thunder  speaks 

Loud  from  his  midnight  throne,  thou  dost  discern 

An  import  and  a  tone  none  else  may  know; 

And  in  the  lightning  flash  thou  see'st  a  glance, 

That  else  who  once  beholds  shall  surely  die  ! 


324  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

Does  grandeur  call  thee  ?     Lo  !  the  boundless  scene 

Glows  with  a  living  spirit;  and  thy  heart 

Swells  with  expanding  rapture,  high  and  wild, 

And  unexpress'd,  save  in  thy  thrilling  song. 

The  aged  forest  bows  his  hoary  head, 

In  reverence,  and  waves  his  trembling  arms 

On  high,  to  hail  thy  coming  to  his  shades. 

The  mountains  loftier  lift  their  lofty  heads, 

And  stand  like  giants  guarding  the  sweet  vales 

Of  humble  peace,  from  the  demoniac  storm. 

The  seas  explain  to  thee  their  mysteries  ; 

For  thee  the  blue  heavens  cast  their  veil  aside, 

And  sun,  and  moon,  and  stars  come  near,  and  show 

Unto  thy  favoured  eye  their  wondrous  things. 

Does  novelty  attract  thee?  things  more  strange 

Appear  in  things  the  strangest,  and  a  power 

Alike  peculiar,  wonders  in  thy  sight. 

The  clouds  assume  all  hostile  forms,  and  wage 

Celestial  warfare  ;  meteors  on  swift  wing 

Bear  to  the  Prince  of  Hell  tidings  of  earth  ; 

And  comets,  issuing  from  the  eternal  throne 

To  see  if  earth's  iniquity  is  full, 

Wave  wide  the  threat'ning  sword — the  startled  sky 

Shrinks  from  the  horrid  light,  and  pales  with  fear. 

Earth  listens,  motionless,  expecting  still 

The  thunder  of  Destruction's  chariot  wheels — 

And  Time  throws  down  his  scythe,  crushes  his  glass, 

And,  trembling,  waits  th'  archangel's  dooming  voice ! 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  325 


BY  B.  MATTHIAS. 


"  Its  bounding  crystal  frolicked  in  the  ray, 

And  gushed  from  cleft  to  crag  with  saltless  spray."  —  Byron. 

IT  is  probable  there  are  but  few  individuals  residing  in 
the  vicinity  of  Philadelphia,  who  have  not  heard,  during 
some  interval  of  business  engagements,  of  Wissahiccon 
creek,  a  beautiful  and  romantic  stream  that  falls  into  the 
no  less  romantic  Schuylkill,  about  five  miles  above  the 
city.  The  stream  is  visited,  statedly,  by  but  a  small  num 
ber  of  persons,  but  as  it  is  neither  found  on  any  map,  nor 
marked  in  any  gazetteer  that  I  have  ever  examined,  there 
may  be  some  apology  offered  for  the  indifference  to  its 
magnificent  scenery,  manifested  by  hundreds  and  thou 
sands  of  our  citizens,  who,  though  domiciled  in  its  immedi 
ate  vicinity,  have  never  deemed  it  worthy  of  a  visit.  So 
true  it  is,  that  there  is  a  proneness  in  human  nature  to  un 
dervalue  the  gifts  of  Providence  which  are  placed  within 
our  reach,  and  to  admire  and  covet  those  which  are  lo 
cated  at  a  distance.  Were  a  fatiguing  journey  of  several 
hundred  miles  necessary,  in  order  to  enjoy  a  ramble 
along  the  banks  of  the  Wissahiccon,  we  should  then, 
without  doubt,  view  its  placid  waters,  its  sluggish  mean 
dering  course,  its  richly  covered  banks,  and  its  imposing 
precipices,  with  the  admiration  and  enthusiasm  which 
scenes  of  this  character  never  fail  to  inspire  in  the  minds 
of  those  who  passionately  love  the  untouched  works  of 
28 


326  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

the  hand  of  Nature.  But  the  delightful  little  stream 
courses  along  within  a  few  miles  of  our  doors,  and  a  ride 
to  its  most  picturesque  views,  is  but  an  hour's  excursion; 
hence,  except  to  a  few  whose  researches  have  discovered, 
and  whose  good  taste  enabled  them  to  appreciate,  the 
beauty,  sublimity,  and  majesty  of  this  stream,  it  is  almost 
unknown. 

But  there  are  persons  who  have  not  been  thus  negligent 
of  nature's  treasures  in  this  vicinity,  and  to  these  a  visit 
to  the  fascinating  Wissahiccon,  calls  up  remembrances 
and  associations  of  the  most  delightful  character.  To 
those  who  enjoy  Nature  in  her  majesty — free,  uncontrol 
led,  undespoiled  of  her  beauty  by  the  effacing  efforts  of 
human  skill — there  is  no  spot,  within  a  circle  of  many 
miles,  so  rich  in  imagery,  so  imposing  in  appearance,  so 
fascinating  in  attraction,  as  the  banks  of  the  Wissahiccon. 
The  stream  takes  its  rise  from  several  springs  in  the  up 
per  part  of  Montgomery  county,  and  flows,  for  a  short 
distance,  through  a  limestone  country,  remarkable  for  fer 
tility  and  a  high  state  of  cultivation. — Thence  it  passes, 
southwesterly,  "  a  sweet  smiling  stream  sleeping  on 
the  green  sward,"  into  more  undulating  land,  until  it 
reaches  the  Chestnut  ridge,  from  which  it  progresses,  at 
times  indolently,  and  at  times  with  an  impetuous  current, 
through  a  narrow  valley,  hedged  in  on  either  side  by 
high  hills,  steep  and  craggy  cliffs  and  precipitous  moun 
tains,  until  it  strikes  the  Schuylkill,  about  a  mile  above  the 
falls.  Along  its  whole  course  the  scenery  of  the  Wissa 
hiccon  is  beautiful,  but  it  is  the  portion  lying  within  four 
or  five  miles  of  its  mouth,  that  is  generally  regarded  as 
the  most  attractive,  as  it  exhibits,  in  bolder  relief  than 
any  other  portion,  the  peculiar  sublimity  and  grandeur 
of  the  stream,  and  the  imposing  and  majestic  ledge  of 
rock  work  through  which  it  passes.  It  is  along  this  dis- 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  327 

tance  that  I  have  been  accustomed  to  ramble  during 
leisure  moments,  for  years,  and  it  is  under  the  shade  of 
the  forests  of  brilliant  hue  that  line  its  banks,  that  I  have 
often  reclined,  and  enjoyed,  undisturbed,  the  sweet  melo 
dy  of  nature,  issuing  from  the  bursting  green  foliage 
around  me.  I  love  nature  with  enthusiasm,  and  whether 
standing  on  the  bank  of  a  running  stream  and  listening 
to  the  sweet  gushing  sound  of  its  waters,  or  seated  on  an 
eminence  overlooking  the  waving  fields  of  golden  fruit 
that  bless  the  labour  of  the  husbandman;  whether  enchant 
ed  by  the  Siren  song  of  nature's  minstrels  in  the  spring, 
or  watching  the  many-coloured  leaves  of  the  forest,  as 
they  are  borne  through  the  air  by  the  whistling  winds  of 
autumn — there  is,  in  the  scene  before  me,  absorbing  attrac 
tion,  calling  forth  reflections  which  never  fail  to  mellow 
down  the  selfish  and  unkind  feelings  of  the  heart,  and  to 
shed  a  peaceful  consoling  and  happy  influence — all-per 
vading  and  lasting  in  its  impressions — over  the  heart. 

The  wild  and  majestic  are,  however,  the  scenes  to 
which  I  am  most  strongly  attached  and  which  invariably 
elicit,  to  a  greater  extent  than  those  of  a  softer  character, 
passionate  emotions  of  wonder  and  admiration.  I  love 
to  stand  at  the  base  of  a  mountain  whose  summit  reaches 
the  clouds,  and  to  clamber  among  rocks  and  under  pre 
cipices  whose  projecting  cliffs  threaten  destruction  to  the 
hardy  adventurer — I  love  to  explore  the  dense  forests  of 
our  bold  and  beautiful  hills,  and  to  bury  myself  in  the  hid 
den  recesses  of  nature,  where  the  foot  of  man  has  never 
trod,  where  the  sound  of  civilisation  has  never  been  heard 
— I  love  to  stand  at  the  foot  of  Niagara,  and  watch  the 
mighty  torrent  of  a  mighty  inland  sea,  hurling  its  concen 
trated  power  into  the  gulf  below,  and  to  gaze  deep,  deep, 
into  that  awful  abyss — unfathomable,  destructive,  appal 
ling — I  love  to  see  the  elements  at  war,  to  hear  the  rush  of 


328  THE    PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

the  tornado  and  whirlwind,  laying  prostrate  in  their  furi 
ous  course  every  impediment  to  their  destructive  pro 
gress,  and  to  witness  the  fall  of  the  powerful  oak  and  the 
whirlings  of  its  cleft  branches  in  the  sea  of  matter  above, 
crushing  and  overwhelming  the  most  formidable  obstacles 
of  art.  These  are  scenes  in  which'the  spirit  of  the  enthusi 
ast  revels,  and  they  are  scenes  which  strike  the  soul  with 
awe,  speaking  trumpet-tongued  of  the  presence  of  an  Al 
mighty  power!  of  the  omnipotence  of  his  authority,  of 
the  insignificance  of  human  effort,  and  the  frailty  of  hu 
man  life. 

The  scenery  near  the  mouth  of  the  Wissahiccon  is  of 
a  wild,  romantic  and  imposing  character,  beautiful  in  its 
ever-varying  aspect,  and  interesting  in  its  mystic  associa 
tions.  High  hills,  occasionally  assuming  the  appearance 
of  mountains,  rise  on  either  side,  covered  with  a  dense 
and  beautifully  variegated  foliage.  The  dogwood,  with, 
its  beautiful  flowers,  the  chestnut,  the  locust,  the  melan 
choly  willow,  the  sumac,  the  gum,  with  its  vermillion 
leaves,  and  the  gloomy  hemlock,  flourish  here  in  all  their 
native  grandeur,  and  the  lofty  oak,  the  father  of  the  for 
est,  stretches  out  his  thickly  covered  branches  to  afford 
shade  and  shelter  to  the  weary  pedestrian.  Wild  flowers, 
in  great  number  and  varieties,  rivalling  each  other  in  love 
liness,  are  found  in  the  underwood,  giving  effect  to  the 
drapery  of  the  verdant  trees,  by  enlivening  the  dark  hues 
of  the  thickly-growing  and  overshadowed  forest.  Some 
of  these  flowers  and  plants  are  of  rare  quality  and  surpass 
ing  beauty,  and  far  eclipse  in  attraction  many  that  are  cul- 
vated  with  care  and  pride  in  our  horticultural  gardens; 
but  here  they  spring  up,  year  after  year,  in  silence  and 
solitude,  being  literally 

**  Born  to  blush  unseen, 
And  waste  their  fragrance  on  the  desert  air." 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  329 

Iii  the  valley  of  the  stream  along  the  eastern  side  of 
which,  for  a  mile  or  two,  a  convenient  road  has  been 
chiseled  and  scooped  out  of  the  sides  of  the  stony  hill, 
the  vision  is  completely  obstructed  by  the  imposing  banks, 
and  hills  rising  above  hills,  on  either  shore,  aud  but  for 
the  unpoetic  noise  of  a  labouring  mill,  and  the  span  of  a 
rude  bridge  which  crosses  to  a  small  cavern  or  clevity  in 
the  rocky  slope,  there  would  be  nothing  to  betray  the 
presence  of  man,  or  to  mark  the  contiguity  of  human 
enterprise.  Alas!  that  not  one  spot — not  even  the  glo 
rious  Wissahiccon — bearing  the  undoubted  impress  of  the 
hand  of  the  God  of  nature^ — can  escape  the  desolating  de 
predations  and  officious  interference  of  the  onward  march 
of  civilisation. 

The  carriage  road  commencing  at  the  mouth  of  the 
Wissahiccon,  crosses  the  stream  on  a  covered  bridge,  about 
a  mile  and  a  half  above,  winds  up  a  hill  of  considerable 
elevation  and  passes  over  to  the  Ridge.  From  the  co 
vered  bridge  access  along  the  creek  is  obtained  by  means 
of  a  foot  path,  on  the  western  side,  which  is  marked 
through  the  forest,  over  crags  and  cliffs,  rugged  rocks 
and  rooted  trees,  until  it  reaches  a  beautiful  green  lawn, 
a  little  parlour  in  the  wilderness,  celebrated  as  the  resort 
of  occasional  pic  nic  parties  of  young  ladies  and  gentle 
men  from  the  city,  and  where,  on  the  grassy  floor,  youth 
and  beauty  have  often  mingled  in  the  graceful  dance,  and 
joined  in  the  merry  song  of  innocence  and  gay  hilarity. 
It  is  a  sweet  spot,  and  surrounded  as  it  is,  by  scenery  of 
the  wildest  and  most  romantic  character,  may,  very  ap 
propriately,  be  designated  the  "  oasis  of  the  Wissahiccon." 
Near  this  place,  immediately  on  the  water's  edge,  the 
ruins  of  an  antiquated  stone  building  are  discovered,  scat 
tered  over  the  ground,  and  as  no  trace  of  the  original  ap 
pearance  of  the  edifice  can  be  found,  the  imagination  is 

28* 


330  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

permitted  to  enjoy  free  scope  in  dwelling  upon  the  cha 
racter  and  pursuits  of  its  ancient  founders.  On  the  op 
posite  side,  the  banks  rise  up,  in  many  places  almost  per 
pendicularly,  to  the  height  of  mountains,  and  but  few 
have  the  temerity  to  attempt  a  passage  along  the  course 
of  the  stream,  as  a  single  false  step  might  hurl  them 
among  the  dangerous  rocks  and  jutting  cliffs  below.  Here, 
as  well  as  on  the  western  side,  several  clevities  and  ca 
verns  in  the  granite  rocks  may  be  found,  but  it  does  not 
appear  that  they  extend  to  any  great  depth  under  the 
massive  structure;  and  here  upon  the  edge  of  a  hill,  may 
be  seen  the  point  at  which  it  was  some  time  since  pro 
posed  to  throw  a  bridge  over  the  stream,  to  carry  across 
the  rail-road  from  Philadelphia  to  Norristown.  The 
projectors  of  the  scheme  reached  thus  far  in  their  onward 
progress,  but  in  casting  a  glance  over  the  precipice  into 
the  gulph  below,  were  struck  with  dismay  at  the  formi 
dable  obstacles  which  appeared,  and  prudently  abandoned 
the  hazardous  and  wildly-conceived  undertaking. 

Near  Garsed's  flax  mill,  the  foot-path  crosses  to  the 
eastern  shore  of  the  stream,  on  a  rude  log  chained  to  an 
adjacent  stone,  and  passes  up  through  a  forest  overhang 
ing  the  sluggish  waters,  and  through  a  thick  underwood, 
which,  in  some  places,  is  almost  impenetrable.  Occasional 
openings  in  the  dense  foliage,  which  become  more  fre 
quent  as  the  pedestrian  progresses  up  the  stream,  afford 
highly  picturesque  and  enchanting  views  of  the  surround 
ing  hills,  such  as  those  who  appreciate  nature  in  her  ma 
jesty,  would  journey  miles  upon  miles,  and  endure  pain 
and  fatigue  without  murmuring,  to  behold.  In  every 
direction  the  scenes  unfolded  to  the  eye  are  rich  and  en 
chanting  beyond  description,  and  remind  the  visiter  who 
associates  therewith  ideas  of  intellectual  pleasure  and  en 
joyment,  of  the  beautiful  lines  of  the  poet: 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  231 

"  Dear  solitary  groves,  where  peace  does  dwell! 

Sweet  harbours  of  pure  love  aud  innocence! 

How  willingly  could  I  for  ever  stay 

Beneath  the  shade  of  your  embracing  greens, 

List'ning  to  the  harmony  of  warbling  birds, 

Tun'd  with  the  gentle  murmur  of  the  stream; 

Upon  whose  banks,  in  various  livery 

The  fragrant  offspring  of  the  early  year, 

Their  heads,  like  graceful  swans,  bent  proudly  down, 

Reflecting  their  own  beauties  in  the  crystal  flood." 

One  of  the  most  interesting  spots  on  the  Wissahiccon, 
is  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  the  great  perpendicular 
rock  of  granite,  opposite  Kittenhouse's  mill.  Here  the 
dark  shadows  of  the  hill  fall,  with  beautiful  effect,  upon 
the  gurgling  stream,  and  the  rich  and  deep  wood-land 
foliage,  the  tangled  shrubbery,  redolent  of  fragrance, 
the  towering  cliffs  on  the  one  side,  and  imposing  hills 
and  dales  on  the  other,  give  to  the  place  a  charm  and 
fascination,  which  the  reflecting  mind  may  enjoy,  but  ot 
which  it  is  impossible  to  convey  with  the  pen,  any  ac 
curate  description.  It  was  near  this  enchanting  place, 
on  the  sun  side  of  a  high  hill,  as  is  currently  believed, 
that  Kelpius  and  his  friend,  scholars  of  Germany,  located 
themselves  about  the  close  of  the  seventeenth  century, 
and  where  for  years  they  dwelt  in  quiet  and  religious 
meditation,  awaiting,  with  anxious  prayer,  the  coming  of 
the  "  Lady  of  the  Wilderness,"  and  where  they  died,  as 
we  now  know,  "  without  the  sight."  It  was  here,  that, 
at  a  period  long  anterior  to  the  arrival  of  Kelpius,  the 
untamed  monarch  of  these  wilds,  came  to  enjoy  the  rich 
treasures  of  nature,  and  to  worship  in  silence,  the  good 
ness  and  bounty  of  the  Great  Spirit.  It  was  here,  per 
haps,  on  the  summit  of  this  very  hill,  that  the  original 
owners  of  the  soil  assembled  for  the  war  dance  and  to 
make  preparations  for  a  furious  and  bloody  contest;  or 
mayhap  it  was  here  that  the  chiefs  of  different  tribes  as- 


332  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

sembled  to  bury  the  hachet  of  war  and  to  smoke  the  calu 
met  of  amity  and  peace.  Perhaps  it  was  here  that  the 
noble  young  warrior,  flushed  with  the  honours  of  victory, 
stole  silently  at  the  midnight  hour,  to  breathe  his  tale  of 
love  and  his  vows  of  devotion,  into  the  ear  of  his  blush 
ing  and  affianced  bride;  and  surely  no  spot  can  be  found? 
in  the  whole  range  of  our  wide  spread  territory,  so  suita 
ble  for  scenes  of  this  character.  Here  is  the  abode  of  ro 
mance;  here  the  spirit  of  nature  holds  undisputed  sway — 
and  here,  among  these  rugged  rocks  and  in  this  dense 
foliage — by  the  side  of  this  poetic  stream,  with  its  asso 
ciations  of  woody  heights  and  shady  dells — it  is  fitting 
that  pure  and  holy  vows  of  love  should  be  uttered,  where 
Heaven,  in  every  leaf  of  the  forest,  in  every  blade  of  grass, 
may  be  called  upon  to  bear  witness  to  their  sincerity  and 
truth. 

But  the  Wissahiccon  has  fallen  into  other  hands.  The 
untutored  savage  no  longer  strolls  over  these  silent  moun 
tains  and  vales,  for  his  abode  has  been  removed  far  away, 
beyond  the  western  waters.  The  bones  of  his  warrior 
father  lie  bleached  and  neglected  in  the  depths  of  the  val 
ley,  for  the  high-bounding  spirit  of  the  son  is  tamed,  by 
the  contaminating  influence  of  his  civilised  brethren.  The 
active  deer  no  longer  bounds  over  the  hills  and  dales  of 
the  Wissahiccon,  for  he  has  been  driven  to  more  seques 
tered  abodes.  The  stream  is,  however,  much  the  same 
— its  placid  waters  are  still  beautiful  as  mirrors — its 
shores  are  still  romantic — its  groves  are  still  enchanting 
— and  so  may  they  ever  remain,  undisturbed,  untouched 
by  the  dilapidating  hand  of  man!  The  place  should  ever 
be  reserved  as  a  refreshing  retreat,  where  the  soul  may 
be  uplifted  in  devotion,  and  the  heart  gladdened  in  sweet 
contemplation — where  no  sound  shall  be  heard  but  the 
notes  of  melody  and  joy,  in  delightful  unison  with  the 
tones  of  the  murmuring  rill. 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  333 

"  To  sit  on  rocks,  to  muse  o'er  flood  and  fell, 

To  slowly  trace  the  forest's  shady  scene, 
Where  things  that  own  not  man's  dominion  dwell, 

And  mortal  foot  hath  ne'er  or  rarely  been; 
To  climb  the  trackless  mountain  all  unseen; 
With  the  wild  flock  that  never  needs  a  fold; 
Alone  o'er  steeps  and  foaming  falls  to  lean; 
This  is  not  solitude — 'tis  but  to  hold 
Converse  with  nature's  claims,  and  see  her  stores  un- 

roll'd." 

Two  or  three  miles  above  the  perpendicular  rock,  on 
the  eastern  shore  of  the  stream,  and  in  a  spot  equally  beau 
tiful  and  romantic,  stands  an  edifice  of  great  antiquity,  con 
nected  with  which  there  are  a  number  of  interesting  asso 
ciations.  It  is  built  nearly  on  the  summit  of  a  slope  that 
stretches  into  a  ravine,  walled  in  on  three  sides  by  elevated 
hills,  thickly  covered  with  foliage.  The  building  is  of 
stone,  three  stories  high,  with  numerous  windows,  four  to 
each  chamber,  of  uniform  size  and  appearance;  sixty  years 
ago  there  was  a  balcony  around  the  second  story,  and  the 
old-fashioned  eaves,  plastered  in  semi-circular  form,  still 
to  be  seen,  exhibit  the  architectural  taste  and  style  of  a 
past  century.  The  date  of  its  erection  is  supposed  to  be  the 
year  1706,  and  its  founders  a  society  of  religious  Germans, 
probably  known  as  Pietists  or  Seven  day  BaptistSy  who 
no  doubt  selected  this  secluded  situation  in  order  to  secure 
peace  and  quietness  in  their  religious  devotions.  Many 
of  the  aged  inhabitants  of  the  neighbourhood  remember 
this  monastery,  as  a  building  of  unchanged  appearance, 
even  from  the  days  of  their  boyhood,  and  some  have  con 
nected  therewith  curious  traditions  of  romance  and  le 
gends  of  mystic  tale.  Notwithstanding  the  edifice  has 
lately  undergone  a  thorough  alteration,  and  is  now  the 
permanent  residence  of  a  highly  respectable  and  very 
intelligent  family,  it  still  bears  the  reputation  of  being 
visited  by  spirits. 


334  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

The  fact  of  this  building  having  been  occupied  as  a 
monastery,  by  a  brotherhood  of  Germans,  is,  however,  in 
volved  in  doubt.  One  tradition  alleges,  that  it  was  ten 
anted,  for  some  time,  by  a  fraternity  of  Capuchins,  or 
White  Friars,  who  took  upon  themselves  vows  of  absti 
nence  and  poverty,  and  who  slept  upon  wooden  or  stone 
pillows,  with  places  scolloped  out  for  the  head.  In  con 
firmation  of  this  tradition,  an  ancient  burial  place  near 
the  premises,  now  under  tillage,  is  pointed  out,  where 
repose  the  remains  of  many  of  the  brotherhood.  Another 
and  more  probable  story  is,  that  the  building  was  actually 
erected  for  a  religious  society,  professing  a  faith  similar 
to  that  of  of  the  Seven  day  Baptists  at  Ephrata,  near  Lan 
caster,  but  never  occupied,  as  those,  for  whom  it  was  de 
signed,  deemed  it  expedient  to  leave  the  neighbourhood 
and  join  the  settlement  at  Ephrata.  The  Chronica  Eph 
rata  expressly  states  that  previous  to  the  formation  of  that 
community,  in  May,  1733,  they  had  dwelt  in  separate 
places  as  hermits,  and  "the  hermits  of  the  Ridge"  are 
frequently  mentioned.  That  there  was  a  feeling  of  affec 
tion  between  these  hermits  and  the  brotherhood  in  Eph 
rata,  is  beyond  all  doubt,  as  the  Chronica,  in  another  place, 
speaks  of  some  brothers  of  single  devotedness  at  Rox- 
borough,"  who  subsequently  fell  in  with  the  spirit  of  the 
world  and  married." 

Kelpius,  probably  the  first  of  the  hermits  on  the  Wis- 
sahiccon,  died  in  the  year  1708.  He  was  succeeded  by 
Seelig,  who  survived  him  many  years,  and  who  was 
contemporary  with  Conrad  Matthias,  another  recluse, 
whose  cave  was  near  the  Schuylkill.  Tradition  speaks 
of  these  Germans  as  being  men  of  undoubted  piety  and 
great  learning.  Kelpius  wrote  several  languages,  and 
his  journal,  in  Latin,  is  now  in  the  possession  of  a  dis 
tinguished  antiquarian  of  Philadelphia.  .He  waited  the 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  335 

coming  of  the  <»  Lady  of  the  Wilderness," — the  "  wo 
man  clothed  with  the  sun,  and  the  moon  under  her  feet, 
and  upon  her  head  a  crown  of  twelve  stars,"  spoken 
of  in  the  Scriptures,  as  having  "  fled  into  the  wilderness, 
where  she  hath  a  place  prepared  of  God,  that  they 
should  feed  her  there  a  thousand  two  hundred  and 
threescore  days."  (Rev.  xii.)  We  may  wonder  that  such 
a  man  as  Kelpius  should  labour  under  a  delusion  of  this 
character,  but  those  who  will  visit  the  spot  he  selected 
for  his  "  prayerful  waiting,"  will  agree  with  me  in  opin 
ion  that  it  was  singularly  well  chosen  to  harmonise  with 
and  foster  his  eccentric  views  and  romantic  religious  ex 
pectations. 

There  is  another  interesting  legend,  connected  with 
the  monastery  on  the  Wissahiccon,  which  I  feel  inclined 
to  allude  to,  if  I-  may  do  so  without  being  held  responsi 
ble  for  its  veracity.  It  is  a  tale  of  unhappy  love,  and  re 
lates  to  a  young,  beautiful  and  accomplished  French  lady, 
who  followed  her  lover  to  the  Indian  wars,  who  fought 
in  disguise  by  his  side,  and  who  closed  his  eyes  when 
he  fell  at  her  feet,  mortally  wounded.  Being  subsequent 
ly  admitted,  for  temporary  shelter,  into  the  monastery, 
she  passed  a  day  or  two  in  unavailing  grief,  and  died 
heart-broken  at  the  loss  of  all  she  held  near  and  dear  on 
earth.  The  particulars  of  the  melancholy  fate  of  the  beau 
tiful  Louisa,  I  may  hereafter  unfold  to  the  reader,  but  I 
beg  my  young  friends  who  may  discover  the  moond 
which  covers  her  remains  at  the  foot  of  a  weeping  wil 
low,  washed  by  the  gurgling  stream,  to  shed  a  tear  to  the 
memory  of  one  whose  beauty  and  virtues  deserved  a  hap 
pier  fate. 

I  have  thus  attempted  to  give  a  sketch  of  the  ever-de 
lightful  Wissahiccon,  and  to  cast  a  hasty  glance  at  a  few 
of  the  prominent  incidents  with  which  it  was  once  asso- 


336  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

ciated.  If  I  have  failed  to  excite  interest  in  the  mind  of 
the  reader,  let  him  not  hesitate  to  attribute  the  circum 
stance  to  the  feeble  powers  of  the  writer,  rather  than  to 
the  paucity  of  the  subject  to  which  his  attention  has  been 
called.  Beautiful  and  magnificent  beyond  comparison 
are  the  picturesqne  views  of  this  romantic  stream,  and 
for  ages  to  come  may  its  crystal  waters  continue  to  course 
through  the  valley,  affording  peaceful  enjoyment  to  the 
pedestrian  on  its  banks,  and  unqualified  delight  to  those 
who  may  ramble  through  its  attractive  forests. 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  337 


BY  C.  C.  CONWELL. 

HASTE  to  yon  hallowed  spot, 

Earth's  dearest  daughter — 
Haste  to  my  viny  cot, 

O'er  the  blue  water. 
Tell  me  not  dearest  one 

How  the  world  views  us, 
Envy  and  spite  alone 

Make  them  abuse  us. 
What  if  the  world  disprove 

Coldly  and  drearly — 
Sweetest,  while  thus  we  love 

Fondly  and  dearly — 
Tell  me  not  how  the  vow 

Fervently  plighted, 
Warm  from  affection  now, 

E'er  can  be  blighted— 
Say  not  that  love  can  flee 

Forms  that  embow'r  it, 
And,  like  the  sated  bee, 

Leave  the  spoil'd  flowret. 
Love,  like  the  rose-fly,  his 

Plant  still  must  cherish, 
Share  with  it  storm  and  bliss, 

Die  if  it  perish. 
The  broad  sun  that  bade  the  day 

Gaze  on  my  treasure, 
29 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

Steals  all  his  light  away, 

Leaves  us  to  pleasure. 
Now  is  the  hour  of  bliss, 

Now  the  day  closes; 
Now  Autumn's  breezy  kiss, 

Dies  on  the  roses. 
Dian  o'er  Ether's  breast 

Leads  her  bright  million, 
Here  be  our  bed  of  rest, 

Heaven  our  pavilion — 
Here  be  our  bloomy  bed, 

Here  in  the  valley — 
Here  where  around  thy  head 

Hangs  the  lime-alley. 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  339 


inun  WASUEE©!*!  ©IF  •2111111 

BY  MORRIS  MATTSON.       "  /* 

THROUGH  what  is  now  one  of  the  western  states, 
about  half  a  century  ago,  there  roamed  a  small  band  of 
aborigines,  who  were  the  terror  of  the  neighbouring 
whites.  They  were,  altogether,  not  more  than  fifty  in 
number,  consisting  entirely  of  those,  who,  actuated  by 
a  restless  and  warlike  spirit,  were  at  continual  enmity 
with  the  less  enterprising  and  turbulent  brethren  of  their 
tribe,  and  accordingly  formed  themselves  into  a  band  of 
reckless  desperadoes.  Sagitto,  by  common  consent,  was 
elected  their  war  chief.  He  was  chosen,  perhaps,  partly 
for  his  unwavering  intrepidity ;  and  partly,  because  he 
was  known  to  possess  extraordinary  prudence  and  fore 
sight.  Sagitto  was  by  no  means  one  of  the  worst  of 
men.  Although  bold,  daring,  and  oftentimes  merciless, 
yet  there  was  a  loftiness  and  grandeur  in  his  character, 
that  partially  obscured  every  evil  passion  of  his  nature. 
His  muscular  and  proportioned  frame — his  haughty  and 
majestic  stride — his  manly  and  prepossessing  features — 
all  seemed  to  proclaim  that  he  might  be  fashioned  for 
some  noble  and  exalted  purpose.  Over  his  followers  he 
exercised  a  strange  and  unbounded  influence.  His  occa 
sional  severity  only  tended  to  increase  their  admiration 
and  love.  They  looked  upon  him  as  a  superior  being, 
invested  with  the  entire  control  of  their  destiny  ;  and 
Sagitto,  shrewd  and  penetrating  as  he  was,  lost  not  the 


340  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

advantage  of  their  credulity.  He  taught  them  to  believe 
that  the  very  elements  were  obedient  to  his  command  ; 
and  it  was  a  tradition  among  them,  that  at  one  time, 
when  surrounded  by  his  enemies,  he  had  retreated  to  the 
top  of  a  mountain — and,  lo  !  the  heavens  were  over 
spread  with  clouds,  and  Sagitto,  in  his  terrible  and  vindic 
tive  wrath,  grasping  the  hissing  and  angry  lightnings, 
hurled  them  over  the  earth,  scathing  and  destroying  all 
within  his  reach.  And,  when  the  storm  had  passed 
away  a  thousand  corses  were  scattered  along  the  wilder 
ness.  So  much  for  the  traditions  of  a  simple,  confiding, 
and  romantic  race. 

We  were  speaking  of  Sagitto's  influence  over  his  little 
tribe  of  Seminoles.  At  the  waving  of  his  hand,  they 
were  silent  as  death.  A  single  whisper,  and  their  battle- 
axes  were  gleaming  in  every  direction  ;  and  then  yells 
and  whoops  passed  through  the  everlasting  forest,  like 
the  loud  blast  of  the  equinox.  Their  retreat  was  in  a 
narrow  pass,  between  two  mountains,  that  terminated  ab 
ruptly  on  the  Missouri  river.  They  were  continually  at 
warfare  with  the  white  settlements;  more,  perhaps,  for 
the  sake  of  plunder,  than  a  desire  of  shedding  blood. 
But  as  they  frequently  met  with  opposition,  a  contest,  of 
course,  would  ensue,  which  too  often  terminated  in  their 
complete  success. 

The  Washpelong  believed  that  there  was  little  proba 
bility  of  their  hiding  place  being  discovered.  In  this 
they  were  mistaken.  Some  incidental  circumstance  led 
to  their  detection.  It  was  ascertained  that  their  resort 
could  be  approached  from  the  river.  Boats  were  got  in 
readiness  and  a  large  body  of  veteran  marksmen  were 
prepared  to  commence  the  attack.  They  chose  a  tem 
pestuous  night,  when,  they  believed,  the  Indians  would 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  341 

not  be  upon  their  guard.  In  landing,  almost  in  breath 
less  silence,  an  arrow  whizzed  by  them.  They  stood,  for 
a  moment,  unmoved.  Another — another,  and  another  ! 

Still  they  were  silent.  They  could  see  no  object 
through  the  darkness  of  midnight.  At  length  an  arrow 
struck  one  of  the  adventurers  in  the  temple ;  he  gave  a 
loud  scream,  and  fell  dead  upon  the  spot.  A  single  gun 
was  fired,  and  the  supposed  sentinel  howled  in  the  ago 
nies  of  death.  The  whites  were  drawn  up  on  the  shore, 
prepared  for  battle.  The  breathing  of  the  wounded 
Washpelong  was  now  distinctly  heard.  From  the  sound, 
it  appeared  as  though  he  might  be  unsuccessfully  endea 
vouring  to  regain  his  feet.  One  of  the  men  groped  his 
way  through  the  underwood,  about  fifty  yards  from  the 
main  body,  and  discharged  his  musket.  This  stratagem, 
though  dangerous  to  the  individual,  had  the  desired  effect. 
The  Indians  directed  their  attention  to  this  quarter,  and 
the  noise  occasioned  by  the  movement,  gave  the  whites  a 
momentary  advantage.  Several  volleys  were  instantly 
fired,  and,  as  it  was  supposed,  not  entirely  without  effect. 
They  were,  however,  too  well  acquainted  with  the  sub 
tle  enemy  with  whom  they  had  to  contend,  to  remain 
any  longer  exposed,  and  consequently  retreated  immedi 
ately  to  their  boats. 

The  hostility  between  Sagitto's  tribe  and  the  border 
ers  (or  hoosiers)  was  now  of  the  most  deadly  character. 
The  latter,  who  had  been  the  aggressors,  made  active  pre 
parations  to  defend  themselves  from  an  attack  which, 
they  had  every  reason  to  apprehend,  would  soon  be 
made.  For  this  purpose,  every  house  was  plentifully  sup 
plied  with  arms  and  ammunition;  but  when  they  fancied 
their  security  the  greatest,  they  became,  in  a  brief  hour, 
the  victims  of  their  enemies. 

They  were  surprised  during  the  night,  and  before  they 
29* 


342  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

could  make  any  effectual  resistance,  the  whole  village 
was  on  fire.  It  is  unnecessary  to  describe  the  conflagra 
tion,  plunder,  and  havoc  of  that  fearful  night.  The  red 
men  were  determined  to  avenge  the  wrongs  they  had 
sustained  j  and  the  result  can  easily  be  imagined.  But 
few,  very  few  of  the  villagers  escaped.  Those  who  quit 
their  dwellings  were  slaughtered  upon  the  spot.  House 
after  house  was  burnt  to  the  ground,  until  they  were 
nearly  all  consumed.  There  was  yet  one,  standing  alone, 
to  which  the  fire  was  just  communicated.  The  roof  was 
beginning  to  blaze.  The  infuriated  Washpelong  imme 
diately  assembled  around  it,  prepared  to  cut  off  every 
possible  retreat  of  its  inmates.  What  a  spectacle  was 
here  presented  !  the  fiendish  countenances  of  the  assail 
ants,  each  eager  for  his  prey,  looked  not  unlike  so  many 
statues  of  bronze,  as  they  stood,  gazing  intently  upon  the 
conflagration,  ready  to  glut  the  murderous  tomahawk 
with  the  blood  of  those  who  might  have  the  hardihood 
to  fly.  Suddenly  the  casement  of  a  window  flew  open, 
and  a  female  appeared,  as  if  in  the  act  of  leaping  to  the 
earth.  AVhile  she  remained  for  a  moment  in  this  posi 
tion,  she  was  entirely  enveloped  in  a  sheet  of  flame. 
She  sprang  forward,  and  fell  prostrate  upon  the  ground. 
A  dozen  battleblades  gleamed  in  the  livid  and  sickly 
light,  above  her  beautiful  head. 

"Hold  !"  wildly  exclaimed  Sagitto,  rushing  among 
them.  They  all  fell  back  without  a  murmur. 

"  The  Great  Spirit  is  angry  !  continued  Sagitto,  as  he 
caught  up  the  female  in  his  arms.  For  a  moment  he 
looked  intently  upon  her  features,  and  a  tear  stole  down 
his  swarthy  cheek.  Her  senses  returned,  and  she  was 
carried  away  a  captive  by  the  war  chief.  He  gave  her 
the  name  of  Orania,  and  bestowed  upon  her  every  possi 
ble  attention.  It  was  a  long  time  before  she  could  be  re- 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  343 

conciled  to  her  lot,  but  at  last  she  grew  contented  and 
even  cheerful.  Sagitto  instructed  her  in  his  own  lan 
guage  ;  and  under  his  direction,  she  acquired  the  art  of 
decorating  her  person  according  to  the  peculiar  fashion  of 
his  tribe.  Her  habits  were  at  length  almost  entirely 
assimilated  with  those  of  the  Indians ;  and  as  the  reader 
has,  perhaps,  already  anticipated,  she  became  the  bride 
of  Sagitto.  Her  young  affections  were  entirely  his — she 
loved  him  with  all  a  woman's  fondness.  He,  strange  as 
it  may  appear,  was  the  only  object  before  whom  she  bow 
ed  in  adoration.  His  image  was  shrined  too  deeply  in 
her  heart,  ever  to  be  obscured.  If  he  was  thoughtful  or 
gloomy,  she  was  never  satisfied  until  she  had  inspired 
him  with  cheerfulness  and  good  humour.  She  was  as  a 
ministering  angel  ever  ready  to  soften  his  rugged  sor 
rows.  For  hours  she  has  sat  in  the  pale  light  of  the 
moon,  pouring  out  her  soul  in  all  the  fervour  and  eloquence 
of  song  to  charm  away  the  Manitou  of  evil  from  the 
bosom  of  her  devoted  lord. 

Five  months,  only,  had  elapsed  during  their  matrimo 
nial  existence,  when  Sagitto  and  his  followers  were  drawn 
into  another  contest  with  the  whites.  Orania  remained 
at  home.  After  an  absence  of  nearly  a  whole  summer, 
the  chief  found  himself  obliged  to  fight  a  desperate  bat 
tle.  His  enemies  were  very  strong,  and  he  had  but  little 
hope  of  success;  still  there  was  no  alternative.  The  con 
test  commenced  ;  but  it  was  of  short  duration.  The 
whites,  actuated  by  a  revengeful  spirit,  pressed  madly  on 
their  foes,  and  overpowered  them  in  an  instant.  Sagitto 
was  their  prisoner.  He  and  the  remnant  of  his  band 
were  securely  bound.  That  night,  they  encamped  upon 
a  hill.  At  sunset,  the  following  day,  the  prisoners  were 
to  be  shot.  The  next  morning,  Sagitto  was  upon  his 
feet.  He  was  leaning  against  a  tree,  to  which  he  had 


344  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

been  fastened  by  his  captors.  He  was  silent  and  medita 
tive.  He  communed  entirely  with  his  own  thoughts 
For  a  long  time  he  had  been  gazing  towards  the  east. 

His  abstraction  was  observed  by  Colonel  N ,  one  of 

the  principal  officers,  who  approached  him. 

"What  do  you  see  ?"  he  asked  with  a  tender  solici 
tude  peculiar  to  this  excellent  man. 

"  A  mountain,"  significantly  replied  the  chief. 

"  A  mountain  ?  And  why  do  you  look  upon  it  so 
earnestly  ?" 

"It  is  my  home.  In  the  moon  of  flowers,*  many 
years  ago,  I  burnt  one  of  your  villages.  We  took  many 
scalps.  One  of  your  daughters  I  carried  away.  She 
was  beautiful  as  the  magnolia,  and  her  voice  sweeter  than 
the  songsparrow.  She  is  my  wife." 

"  And  you  wish  to  see  her  ?" 

"  You  say  I  am  to  die  ?  Would  a  paleface  see  the  wife 
of  his  bosom,  before  he  goes  to  the  Great  Spirit  ?" 

"  We  will  send  for  her  to  the  Camp,"  said  Col.  N . 

"  No,"  cried  the  chief  with  emotion,  <  She  is  your 
enemy.  She  wears  the  red  paint.'t  She  is  terrible  as 
the  hissing  of  the  Great  Serpent !  Are  you  mad  ?  would 
you  take  away  her  life  ?  1  would  talk  to  her  in  my  own 
weegewam. 

"  The  fox,  if  it  once  escapes,  never  returns,"  said  the 
officer. 

.  "  The  palefaces  talk  with  their  own  hearts.  A  chief 
would  not  disgrace  his  tribe  with  a  lie.  The  Great 
Spirit  woald  be  offended.  Why  do  you  doubt  ?  W^as 
I  ever  guilty  of  deceit?  Bid  me  go  free.  Tell  me,  with 
out  asking  a  pledge,  that  I  am  no  longer  your  prisoner. 

*  May  is  called  by  the  Indians  the  moon  of  flowers, 
t  An  emblem  of  war. 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  345 

And  what  would  I  do?  Would  I  bury  the  tomahawk? 
Would  I  forget  my  wrongs  ?  Would  I  quietly  smoke 
the  calumet  of  peace  ?  Would  your  midnight  slumbers  be 
undisturbed?  No  !  The  warwhoop  should  ring  in  your 
ears.  Our  knives  would  reek  with  your  blood,  and  our 
mantles  be  covered  with  your  scalps.  But,  if  I  depart, 
with  the  promise  to  return,  rely  on  my  word.  Shall  1 

go?" 

The  chief  was  unbound. 

"An  hour  before  sunset/5  said  Col.  N ,  "  you  will 

hear  the  sound  of  the  wardrum.  This  will  be  the  signal 
for  your  return." 

Sagitto  walked  slowly  away.  In  a  few  moments  he 
was  lost  among  the  trees.  He  journeyed  on  to  the  home 
of  Orania.  She  met  him  in  the  forest  where  she  was 
gathering  flowers.  She  beheld  her  long  absent  lord,  and 
flew  to  his  embrace. 

"  Oh,  Sagitto,  you  have  at  last  returned.  My  heart  is 
full  of  joy.  But  you  were  unkind,  very  unkind  to  leave 
me  so  long.  Oh,  I  had  such  a  fearful  dream  ?  I  thought 
you  were  dead,  and  that  I  was  scattering  flowers  upon 
your  grave.  Are  you  well?  Do  not  frown  upon  me. 
How  mournful  you  look.  Will  you  not  kiss  me,  Sagitto? 
There  !  once  more.  Now,  are  you  better  ?  If  you  would 
smile — but  for  a  moment !" 

"  Orania  !"  said  the  chief,  after  a  long  pause,  "  a  mes 
senger  of  the  Great  Spirit  has  whispered  to  you  the  truth. 
Your  dream  is  true.  I  am  doomed  to  death  by  your 
white  brethren." 

"  What  madness  is  this?  Are  you  not  with  your  dear 
Orania  ?  Tell  me  the  truth  ?  The  white  men  doom  you 
to  death  ?  They  dare  not  do  it  !  By  the  great  and 
good  Wahconda  !*  I  repeat,  they  dare  not  do  it !" 

*  The  Supreme  Being. 


346  THE  PHILADELPHIA    BOOK. 

"  Orania,  you  are  deceived.  I  am  their  prisoner.  I 
pledged  my  word  to  return  an  hour  before  sunset." 

"  Then  there  must  be  no  violation  of  promises.  But 
I  will  accompany  you.  You  shall  not  perish  alone.  I 
will  show  the  pajefaces  that  I  have  no  woman's  heart." 
The  chief  clasped  his  bride  still  closer  to  his  breast,  and 
for  a  long  time  they  were  conscious  only  of  each  other's 
presence. 

A  little  before  the  appointed  hour,  they  were  both  in 
sight  of  their  enemy's  camp.  The  drum  beat.  This 
was  the  signal  for  Sagitto's  appearance.  Every  eye  was 
looking  anxiously  around.  He  walked  forward  with  a 
bold  and  majestic  step.  Orania  hung  upon  his  arm.  In 

Col.  N ,the  commanding  officer,  she  recognised  her 

brother.  But  she  made  not  known  the  secret.  She 
sought  not  the  acquaintance  of  those  who  were  preparing 
to  shed  her  husband's  blood.  She  looked  upon  all  pre 
sent,  with  a  calm  and  sullen  indifference.  She  was  asked 
no  questions  ;  for  the  paint,  with  which  she  was  accus 
tomed  to  daub  her  face,  prevented,  perhaps,  a  surmise  as 
to  the  reality  of  her  person.  Sagitto  and  his  wife  were 
ordered  to  take  their  stations  at  the  western  extremity 
of  the  camp.  The  six  other  Indian  prisoners  were  led 
out,  and  placed  at  a  distance  of  about  fifty  yards.  A 
body  of  twenty  men,  armed  with  muskets,  advanced  in 
regular  order,  and  stood  before  them.  The  word  was 
given,  and  they  fired.  The  work  of  death  was  complete. 
One  of  the  unhappy  wretches  sprung  several  feet  into 

the  air.     Col.  N approached   the   chief,   who   had 

been  looking,  unmoved,  upon  this  scene  of  slaughter. 

"  You  see,"  he  said,*4  the  dreadful  extremity  to  which 
we  are  sometimes  driven." 

"  I  see,"  replied  the  chief. 

"  Are  you  ready  ?" 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  347 

"  Ready  !"  he  answered.  Sagitto  embraced  his  wife, 
and  took  his  stand  near  the  spot  where  his  followers  had 
just  been  offered  up  to  the  vengeance  of  the  usurpers.  A 

dozen  muskets  were  levelled  at  his  person.  Col.  N 

stood  at  a  distance,  with  his  sword  drawn,  ready  to  pro 
nounce  the  word  "  Fire."  Orania  walked  boldly  for 
ward,  and  clutched  him  violently  by  the  arm. 

"  Hold  \"  she  cried,  "  or  a  sister's  curse  shall  rest  upon 
you  for  ever  !" 

"  Woman,  away  !  I  know  you  not,"  he  replied. 

"  But  you  shall  know  me,"  she  exclaimed,  and  in  a 
spirit  of  phrenzy  she  tore  off  the  ornaments  of  her  per 
son;  and  spoke  confusedly  and  hurriedly  of  a  hundred 
different  circumstances,  that  tended  to  prove  her  his  only 
sister.  The  evidence  was  irresistible  ;  and  he  paused  a 
moment  to  receive  her  embrace.  Still  he  was  inexo 
rable  in  his  purpose.  The  chief  was  represented  to  be 
the  husband  of  his  sister  ;  but  in  this,  according  to  the 
summary  code  of  frontier  warfare,  he  could  find  no  rea 
son  why  he  should  not  be  dealt  with  as  his  crimes  deserv 
ed.  He  lifted  his  hand  as  a  signal  for  the  men  to  fire, 
while  Orania  hung  convulsively  about  his  neck  to  pre 
vent,  if  possible,  the  fatal  command.  It  was  too  late. 
A  moment,  and  Sagitto  was  no  more. 

Orania  survived  him  but  a  few  months.  She  returned 
to  her  kindred  race ;  but  she  languished  away  like  the 
autumnal  flower.  The  spell  that  bound  her  to  the  earth 
was  broken.  The  birds  had  lost  their  melody — the 
moon,  and  the  stars,  their  lustre — and  the  rivers  and 
mountains  no  longer  had  a  charA  ;  and  when  the  light 
of  Paukannewah*  glowed  over  the  silent  midnight,  and 
the  dancing  spiritst  arose  from  the  bosom  of  the  arctic 
zone,  the  unhappy  Orania  departed  to  the  land  of  dreams. 

*  Ursa  Major.  f  The  Aurora  Borealis. 


348  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 


BY  ROBERT  MORRIS. 

I  WOULD  that  thou  wert  dead,  devoted  one, 

For  thou  art  all  too  pure  to  linger  here  ; 
Life's  joyous  sands  to  thee  have  fleetly  run, 

And  sorrow's  hand  hath  made  thy  being  sear — 
Thy  girlhood  was  a  pure  and  artless  dream, 

And  many  a  sunny  hope  has  thrilled  thy  breast, 
And  many  an  air-blown  bubble  gilt  life's  stream, 

Flash'd  for  a  moment — broke,  and  sunk  to  rest — 
Emblems  of  youth  and  loveliness  were  they, 
And  like  hope's  fairy  visions  pass'd  away. 

I  would  that  thou  wert  dead,  forsaken  girl, 

That  high  pale  brow  enshrined  within  the  tomb; 
For  as  with  gentle  winds  still  waters  curl, 

So  fades  at  sorrow's  touch  young  beauty's  bloom — 
Thou  art  too  pure  and  fair  for  this  cold  earth, 

A  thing  too  guiltless  long  to  dwell  below, 
Thy  voice  has  lost  its  cadences  of  mirth, 

The  glory  has  departed  from  thy  brow — 
And  youth's  pure  bloom  has  left  thy  virgin  heart, 
And  beauty  like  a  phantom  will  depart. 

I  would  that  thou  wert  dead,  for  life  to  thee 
Is  as  a  broken  reed — a  withered  flower; 

Dark  shadows  rest  upon  thy  destiny, 

And  storms  of  fate  around  thy  fortunes  lower — 

Wedded  to  one  thy  bosom  cannot  love, 

Banished  from  him  thine  every  thought  employs, 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  349 

Thou  art  in  heart  a  bruised  and  wounded  dove, 

And  earth  to  thee  can  yield  no  future  joys, 
Wearily  passes  life  and  time  with  thee; 
A  dusky  shadow  dims  thy  destiny. 

I  would  that  thou  wert  dead,  devoted  one, 

And  thy  bright  spirit  disenthralled  of  clay ; 
E'en  as  the  dew-drop  wastes  beneath  the  sun, 

Thus  by  disease  thy  being  wastes  away — 
Oh,  who  that  knew  thee  when  thou  wert  a  child, 

With  a  glad  voice  and  heaven  unfolding  eye, 
A  creature  as  the  snow  flake  undented, 

With  a  bright  lip  and  cheek  of  rosy  dye, 
Oh,  who  that  knew  thee  then,  can  see  thee  now, 
Nor  wonder  for  the  beauty  of  thy  brow. 

I  would  that  thou  wert  dead,  and  sanctified — 

Thy  spirit  with  high  elements  is  fraught, 
And  that  which  scorn  and  cruelty  defied, 

The  lingering  stealth  of  pale  disease  has  wrought — 
Yes,  death  is  near  thee  now,  sweet  Genevieve, 

And  thou  shalt  haste  to  meet  him  with  a  smile; 
It  is  in  vain  thy  gentle  sisters  grieve, 

Thy  soul  shall  soon  flee  by  each  starry  isle, 
That  glitters  brightly  through  the  calm  blue  skies, 
Like  white  lids  lifted  from  pure  spirit's  eyes. 

Thou  soon  shalt  die,  sweet  martyr,  and  the  earth 

Will  nurture  gentle  flowers  above  thy  grave, 
Sweet  emblems  of  thy  being  and  thy  birth, 

With  cypress  leaves  around  thy  tomb  shall  wave — 
And  when  the  pensive  stranger  wanders  nigh, 

His  lips  shall  waft  a  tributary  prayer, 
For  her  who  soon  shall  prematurely  die, 

For  her  whose  seraph  form  shall  moulder  there — 
Farewell,  sweet  Genevieve — 'tis  sad  to  part, 
Farewell,  thy  beauty  shrouds  a  breaking  heart. 
30 


350  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 


BY  J.  R.  TYSON. 

Mifa  £^w/  fW.ifj  n-viw  ooiit  irafljf  isrfi  mi?f  ,/iO 
THE  national  feeling  which  was  engendered  by  Penn 
sylvania's  being  the  principal  theatre  of  war — by  being 
the  locality  of  the  first  Congress — and  by  being  the  place 
whence  emanated  the  Declaration  of  Independence — al 
most  absorbed  provincial  attachments  and  local  sympa 
thies.  Sectional  predilections  were  exchanged  for  the 
brighter  and  more  transcendant  glory  of  the  whole  con 
federacy.  The  wise  providence  of  her  sisters  in  arms, 
while  animated  by  the  patriotic  fire  which  sought  to  de 
stroy  the  pretensions  of  Britain  over  the  Union,  did  not 
permit  them  to  be  frigid  upon  the  subject  of  their  own 
reputations.  They  have  blazoned  their  exploits  in  a 
hundred  narratives  and  histories,  and  perhaps  too  sedu 
lous  of  fame,  have  sometimes  despoiled  Pennsylvania  of 
the  laurels  by  which  her  brow  should  be  adorned.  Not 
content  with  assuming  merits  and  gallantry  which,  per 
haps,  they  legitimately  claim,  the  disposition  has  been 
frequently  observed  to  filch  from  Pennsylvania  some  of 
( the  mighty  meed  of  her  large  honours,'  by  attributing 
to  cowardice  or  toryism  the  effect  of  religious  tenets, 
and  by  ascribing  to  the  state  at  large  the  disaffection  of 
a  few.  During  all  this  period — a  period  beyond  half  a 
century — we  have  so  far  acquiesced  in  the  justice  of  these 
reproaches  as  to  maintain  the  profoundest  silence,  and 
though  vires  acquirunt  eundo,  not  a  production  has  ap- 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  351 

peared  which  aspires  to  the  dignity  of  defending  the  puri 
ty  and  patriotism  of  her  course  by  an  authentic  narrative. 
The  materials  for  a  history  lie  scattered  in  the  richest 
profusion  over  works  which,  to  the  burning  shame  of  our 
patriotic  sensibilities,  be  it  spoken,  are  seldom  examined. 
That  part  of  our  story  which  is  interwoven  with  the  coun 
try,  is  accessible  in  every  form  in  which  it  can  be  pre 
sented,  by  compilations  of  original  documents — the  at 
traction  of  personal  memoirs — and  the  graver  productions 
of  elaborate  histories.  But  where  are  the  narratives  of 
Pennsylvania  in  particular,  subsequent  to  the  year  1775? 
The  total  absence  of  any  sober  and  authentic  develop 
ment  of  her  transactions,  sufferings,  and  services,  has  not 
been  without  its  effects  upon  the  currency  of  opinions 
involving  the  detriment  of  her  revolutionary  fame. 

The  absence  of  a  formal  history  during  and  since  the 
revolution,  has  not  only  proved  injurious  to  the  fame  of 
our  civic  patriotism,  but  it  conveys  a  really  mortifying 
reflection  upon  our  indifference  to  national  glory.  From 
the  labours  of  this  society,  the  accumulations  of  Mr. 
Hazard,  and  the  curious  researches  of  Mr  Watson,  the 
historian  can  labour  under  no  paucity  of  materials.  The 
selection  of  an  individual  who  is  competent  to  such  a  task, 
by  the  charms  of  an  elegant  and  finished  English  style — 
by  philosophical  studies — by  liberal  and  enlarged  views 
— is  a  matter  of  very  general,  even  public  concern.  The 
reputation  of  a  country  and  the  moral  influence  of  her  ex 
ample  upon  her  contemporaries  and  posterity,  must  es 
sentially  depend  upon  the  ability  of  her  historians.  How 
can  the  one  or  the  other  of  these  be  effected,  but  through 
the  medium  of  a  performance  whose  intrinsic  and  supe 
rior  merits  shall  command  the  esteem  of  other  countries 
and  of  other  times?  The  brilliancy  of  great  events,  or  the 
glare  of  imposing  successes  and  dismal  catastrophes,  is 


352  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

not  necessary  to  the  preservation  of  a  people's  memory 
or  the  perpetuity  of  a  people's  influence.  The  nation 
whose  opening  effulgence  and  meridian  splendour  are 
embalmed  in  the  pages  of  a  Livy,  and  whose  decrepitude 
and  decline  are  recorded  by  the  pen  of  a  Tacitus,  is  less 
indebted  for  her  fame  to  the  power  of  her  arms  and  the 
wisdom  of  her  counsels  than  to  the  elegance  of  her  his 
torical  authors.  Would  not  the  bays  of  ancient  Greece 
long  since  have  been  faded  or  obscured,  if  the  genial  and 
kindly  influences  oPHomer,  Herodotus,  and  Thucydides 
had  been  withdrawn?  Such  events  as  the  Persian  and 
Peloponnesian  wars  and  the  expeditions  of  Alexander, 
which  comprise  the  principal  exploits  of  that  celebrated 
people  during  the  lapse  of  three  centuries — illustrious  as 
they  are — may  have  been  surpassed  by  nations  whose 
memory,  not  perpetuated  by  genius,  is  lost  in  the  mists 
of  remote  antiquity.  A  smile  may  perhaps  be  excited  at 
an  allusion  to  the  ever  enduring  fame  of  Greece  and  Rome, 
with  relation  to  the  domestic  transactions  of  Pennsylva 
nia;  but  it  would  not  be  improper  before  the  contemp- 
tuousness  of  ridicule^be  indulged,  that  our  history,  before, 
during,  and  since  the  revolution,  be  fairly  examined  and 
truly  known.  Genuine  philosophy  unfettered  by  the 
trammels  of  education  and  uninfluenced  by  eclat,  will 
coolly  scan  premises  and  investigate  facts,  before  she  will 
pronounce  a  decisive  judgment.  In  imitating  this  pru 
dence  let  us  be  guided  by  no  blind  or  vainglorious  parti 
ality,  but  contemplate  with  calmness,  some  of  the  broad 
lines  of  the  image  which  it  will  be  the  duty  of  our  histo 
rians  to  exhibit. 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  353 


ffl  IF  .&  B&  ^  .&  S  o 

BY  S.  L.  FAIRFIELD. 

MY  father  died  ere  I  could  tell 

The  love  my  young  heart  felt  for  him: 
My  sister  like  a  blossom  fell; 

Her  cheek  grew  cold,  her  blue  eye  dim, 
Just  as  the  hallowed  hours  came  by, 

When  she  was  dearest  unto  me ; 
And  vale  and  stream  and  wood  and  sky 

Were  beautiful  as  Araby. 
And,  one  by  one,  the  friends  of  youth 

Departed  to  the  land  of  dreams: 
And  soon  I  felt  that  friends,  in  sooth, 

Were  few  as  flowers  by  mountain  streams  ; 
And  solitude  come  o'er  me  then, 

And  early  I  was  taught  to  treasure 
Lone  thoughts  in  glimmering  wood  and  glen, 

Now  they  are  mine  in  utmost  measure. 
But  boyhood's  sorrows,  though  they  leave 

Their  shadows  on  the  spirit's  dial, 
Cannot  by  their  deep  spell  bereave — 

They  herald  but  a  darker  trial; 
And  such  'tis  mine  e'en  now  to  bear 

In  the  sweet  radiance  of  thine  eye, 
And  'tis  the  wildness  of  despair 

To  paint  vain  love  that  cannot  die. 
Yet  thus  it  must  be — like  the  flower, 

That  sheds  amid  the  dusky  night 
The  rays  it  drank  at  mid-day  hour, 
30* 


354  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

My  spirit  pours  abroad  its  light, 
When  all  the  beauty  and  the  bloom, 

The  blessedness  of  love  hath  gone, 
And  left  the  darkness  of  the  tomb, 

Upon  the  glory  of  its  throne. 
The  hour  hath  come — it  cannot  part — 

Deterring  pride— one  hurried  deed 
Hath  fixed  its  seal  upon  my  heart, 

And  ever  it  must  throb  and  bleed, 
Till  life,  and  love,  and  anguish  o'er, 

The  spirit  soars  to  its  first  birth, 
And  meets  on  heaven's  own  peaceful  shore 

The  heart  it  loved  too  well  on  earth. 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  355 


BY  OWEN  STOVER. 


Truth  stands  before  him  in  a  full,  clear  blaze, 
An  intellectual  sunbeam,  and  his  eye 
Can  look  upon  it  with  unbending  gaze, 
And  its  minutest  lineaments  descry. — Percival. 

AFTER  the  death  of  an  ancient  relative,  who  seemed  to 
take  much  delight  in  the  contemplation  of  human  life, 
and  to  note  any  remarkable  events  that  might  throw  light 
upon  the  character  of  his  species,  a  number  of  curious 
manuscripts  were  found  in  his  study,  one  of  which  bore 
the  above  title,  and  is  as  follows: 

"  Having  leisure,  and  prompted  by  the  curiosity  of 
our  nature,  I  set  out  upon  a  voyage  to  distant  countries 
and  nations,  to  behold,  with  my  own  eyes,  the  varied 
beauty,  the  magnificent  scenery,  and  multiplied  pheno 
mena  which  nature  has  lavished  so  profusely  over  the 
visible  universe;  to  visit  those  spots  which  the  study  of 
youth  had  rendered  memorable  as  the  theatre  of  heroic 
action;  to  view  man  in  his  different  gradations  of  improve 
ment,  and  meditate  upon  those  causes,  which,  operating 
on  the  flexibility  of  his  nature,  mould  and  fashion  him 
into  a  being  of  such  infinite  diversity.  The  charm  of 
novelty  gradually  subsiding,  and  wearied  with  the  toil 
and  privation  of  such  a  pilgrimage,  I  returned  to  my 
native  home.  But ( 't  is  distance  lends  enchantment  to 
the  view/  and  the  face  of  nature  was  now  changed,  the 


356  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

dream  of  life  had  vanished;  and  the  unhallowed  workings 
of  undignified  passions,  obscuring  the  brightest  horizon, 
the  pang  of  grief  that  seems  even  to  gnaw  the  heart  of 
beauty  itself,  and  the  gloomy  abodes  of  misery  and  hu 
man  wretchedness,  which  I  had  seen,  threw  me  in  a 
solemn  and  profound  meditation.  There  was  a  voice  that 
whispered  within  me:  (  Man  is  born  to  mourn,  the  noblest 
sons  of  Adam  are  doomed  to  taste  the  cup  of  bitterness 
— yes,  by  the  inexorable  decrees  of  the  Omnipotent, 
woes  and  joys  are  inwrought  in  the  human  heart:  spem 
vultu  simulat,  premit  altum  corde  dolorem.'  Wholly  ab 
sorbed  with  these  thoughts,  I  unconsciously  arrived  in  a 
beautiful  grove  of  majestic  oaks,  under  whose  thick  fo 
liage  I  took  shelter  from  the  burning  rays  of  the  sun. 
The  delicious  zephyrs,  that  fanned  my  wearied  brow, 
soon  lulled  me  into  a  deep  slumber.  Methought  I  saw 
an  immense  assembly  ot  people  before  me,  whom,  I  un 
derstood,  a  phalanx  of  distinguished  sages  where  to  enter 
tain  with  their  schemes  and  devices  for  the  improvement 
of  human  felicity.  As  this  was  a  subject  deeply  interest 
ing  to  me,  I  rejoiced  at  this  opportunity  of  hearing  the 
views  of  these  good  and  learned  men.  When  I  was 
about  entering  the  hall,  my  attention  was  arrested  by  a 
clear  and  exceedingly  sweet  voice  behind  me,  saying, 
'  Follow  me.'  Its  rich  and  melodious  tones  touched  my 
heart;  and,  when  I  looked  around,  I  beheld  one  of  the 
loveliest  objects  in  creation.  Plain,  neat,  and  simple  in 
attire,  her  stature  was  a  perfect  symmetry  of  elegance 
and  grace;  her  countenance  glowed  with  the  most  exqui 
site  beauty,  and  ten  thousand  delicacies.  Fear  and  sus 
picion  were  extinct,  in  the  unbounded  confidence  and 
raptures  which  I  felt  She  again  bade  me  follow  her; 
and  waving  a  golden  sceptre  in  her  hand,  I  instinctively 
obeyed.  She  moved  with  a  blazing  torch  before  her, 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  357 

and,  as  she  passed  onward,  every  object  became  bright 
and  luminous  with  her  radiance.  She  conducted  me  to 
an  elevated  mountain:  she  paused,  touched  my  forehead 
with  her  sceptre,  and  my  vision  became  exceedingly 
clear  and  powerful.  i  Now  look  to  your  left,'  said  she; 
and,  turning,  I  saw  a  huge  and  immense  valley,  oversha 
dowed  with  clouds,  thick  mist,  and  pestilential  vapours. 
I  discovered  a  large,  cumbrous  figure  squatted  upon  a 
slimy  mound,  in  the  centre  of  the  extended  marshes  and 
ravines;  whenever  she  attempted  to  rise,  she  was  again 
drawn  back  by  huge  leaden  anchors;  at  last  she  endea 
voured  to  reconcile  herself  to  her  unhappy  condition,  al 
though  nearly  suffocated  by  the  noxious  effluvia  and  heavy 
atmosphere  that  arose  in  volumes  from  the  surrounding 
bogs  and  fens.  Upon  the  back  of  her  iron  crown  I  per 
ceived,  in  large  characters,  Ignorance.  I  observed,  like 
wise,  a  great  number  of  vultures,  ravens,  cormorants  and 
serpents;  of  foxes,  panthers,  and  wolves,  flying,  hissing, 
and  coursing  through  the  valley,  insomuch  that  every 
corner  of  it  echoed  with  the  most  dismal  croaking  and 
howling.  I  looked  upon  my  guide  and  said  that,  '  that 
gloomy  abode  chills  my  heart.'  She  smiled  and  replied: 
4  That  is  the  Vale  of  Indolence;  but  it  has  undergone  a 
great  revolution,  for  Avarice  once  descended  there  and 
cohabited  with  Ignorance,  and  the  consequence  was  a 
very  numerous  progeny,  which  you  have  seen,  and  whose 
real  names  are  Hate,  Suspicion,  Envy,  Malice,  Calumny, 
Ingratitude,  Uncharitableness,  and  their  more  remote  de 
scendants.  This  is  a  fierce  and  inveterate  generation: 
their  nature  and  the  constitution  of  their  minds  are  assimi 
lated  to  the  murky  atmosphere  which  they  breathe:  their 
appetite  is  insatiable.  When  a  foreign  being  of  a  more 
noble  nature,  with  the  most  innocent  views,  enters  within 
their  precints,  they  all  eagerly  follow  him,  and,  unless  he 


358  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

be  clothed  in  the  invincible  armour,  conferred  by  a  neigh 
bouring  sovereignly,  they  never  cease  their  merciless 
pursuit,  until  they  have  fed  upon  his  vitals.  When  there 
is  no  other  prey,  they  fall  upon  each  other.  Then  their 
combat  grows  terrific — their  fury,  unrelenting!'  I  took 
another  view,  and,  as  flashes  of  lightning  broke  through 
the  darkness  that  hung  upon  the  bottom  of  the  vale,  I  dis 
covered  deep  pits,  unobserved  before,  and  was  told  by 
my  guide  that  these  were  the  pits  of  misery,  despair,  and 
perdition,  into  which  this  evil  generation  were  all  ulti 
mately  ingulfed.  I  drew  a  heavy  sigh,  as  my  heart  sunk 
within  me.  My  guide  then  led  me  to  a  greater  elevation, 
and,  as  she  bade  me  look  to  the  right,  I  beheld  a  magni 
ficent  prospect.  The  richest  verdure  covered  the  land 
scape;  trees  of  every  variety,  loaded  with  blossoms  and 
glowing  fruit,  embellished  it;  fountains  of  crystal  water 
and  pellucid  streams  refreshed  and  adorned  the  scene.  The 
balmy  air,  filled  with  dewy  odours,  was  fanned  by  gentle 
zephyrs;  and  a  perpetual  sunshine  hung  upon  the  lovely 
spot.  In  the  midst  of  this  enchantment  there  was  a  white 
transparent  palace,  based,  as  it  seemed,  on  a  vast  adaman 
tine  rock,  which  tornadoes  and  the  convulsions  of  nature 
could  not  shake.  Its  top  was  lost  in  the  heavens.  Within 
this  splendid  palace  I  observed  a  majectic  figure,  en 
throned,  like  a  goddess,  in  a  circle  of  refulgent  light 
Grace,  dignity,  and  ease  were  in  all  her  actions;  her  eye 
glowed  with  hallowed  fire,  and  her  whole  countenance 
beamed  with  benevolence  and  justice.  She  seemed  feast 
ing  on  ambrosia,  distilled  by  Hope  in  the  cup  of  Immor 
tality.  A  host  of  bright  and  buoyant  nymphs  danced 
around  her; 

*  Hearts  burning  with  a  high  empyreal  flame.' 

I  felt  delighted  with  the  sight  before  me,  and  asked 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  359 

my  guide  what  happy  place  this  was.  '  That,'  said  she, 
6  is  the  Garden  of  Knowledge,  and  the  loveliest  dwelling 
within  it,  which  you  see  yonder,  is  the  Temple  of  Virtue, 
in  which  the  Goddess  of  Wisdom  presides.  And  the 
happy  race  of  beings,  that  inhabit  there,  are  known  by 
the  name  of  Justice,  Mercy,  Honesty,  Charity,  Sympathy, 
Love,  and  many  other  tribes.  Among  these  the  most 
perfect  harmony  and  affection  subsists,  and 

'  A  chain 
Of  kindred  taste  hath  fastened  mind  to  mind.' 

No  warfare,  no  thoughts  of  injury  and  injustice  are  in 
dulged,  all  passions  are  purified;  but  the  most  remarkable 
characteristic  of  this  godlike  race  is  that  every  being  has 
a  pure  light  burning  within  him,  which  no  external  vio 
lence  or  accident  can  extinguish;  and  while  it  burns,  by 
a  law  of  his  nature,  the  possessor  cannot  be  positively 
unhappy.  This  is  a  most  beautiful  economy  in  Provi 
dence,  that,  although  the  tie  of  Sympathy  with  its  fellow 
beings,  which  gives  birth  to  many  joyous  raptures,  should 
be  lost  or  severed,  the  seal  of  bliss  is,  nevertheless,  stamp 
ed  upon  his  soul  by  the  presiding  Deity  of  the  place.  If, 
perchance,  there  should  be  any  collision  in  their  will  and 
desires,  to  which  the  mortal  part  of  their  nature  renders 
them  subject,  and  light  up  the  flame  of  discord,  still  it  is 
coelestibus  irae,  the  anger  of  heavenly  minds,  and  honour, 
dignity  and  justice  never  lose  their  dominion  over  his 
intellect:  animum  ex  suamente  et  divinitate  genuit  Deus.' 
— Here  my  guide  paused;  and,  as  I  felt  grateful  obliga 
tions  for  the  revelation  she  had  made,  I  desired  to  know 
to  whom  I  owed  this  happiness.  She  told  me,  Truth: 
that  she  frequently  visited  this  favourite  garden,  where 
she  was  ever  held  in  grateful  remembrance,  but  seldom 


360  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

the  dismal  vale  she  had  shown  me,  as  there  she  was  not 
only  despised,  but  outraged  and  insulted.  Suddenly  a 
loud  cry  and  the  trampling  of  horses  awoke  me;  and  I 
found  myself  in  the  grove,  where  I  had  fallen  asleep,  and 
a  large  pack  of  hounds,  and  many  horsemen  were  divert 
ing  themselves  in  a  fox  chase." 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  361 


BY  T.  A.  WORRALL. 


COME  forth,  pavilioned  cloud, 
And  let  night's  mantle  o'er  the  earth  be  spread — 

The  sage  is  in  his  shroud  ! 
The  widow's  and  the  orphan's  tears  be  shed — 
Weep,  children  of  the  free!  where'er  ye  dwell, 
For  Freedom's  son  has  bid  the  world  farewell .'" 

Toll  now  the  muffled  bell, 
Its  death-cry  well  may  speak  a  nation's  wo — 

Hearts  echo  to  the  knell; 
It  is  the  festival  of  grief — we  go 
With  measured  steps — while  rolls  the  funeral  drum, 
As  if  a  great  calamity  had  come. 

Fond  memory  turns  to  him 
Who  was  a  nation's  foreign,  cherished  son — 

Whose  fame  time  cannot  dim; 
While  age  on  age  shall  keep  what  he  hath  won. 
Honour  will  rise  in  many  a  hymn  of  praise, 
And  myriads  sing  the  deeds  of  other  days. 

Ours  is  no  clamorous  cry, 
Or  vulgar  wo,  the  mockery  of  grief ! 

The  brave  and  good  must  die. 
He  sunk  to  earth,  as  falls  the  Autumn's  leaf; 
But  he  had  sown  the  seed  of  other  years 
For  a  rich  harvest — Europe,  dry  thy  tears  ! 
31 


362  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

A  knell  comes  o'er  the  deep — 
The  nations'  lamentation  for  the  dead, 

Whose  clay  is  wrapp'd  in  sleep  ! 
We  shall  no  more  behold  the  form  which  bled 
With  sires,  who  fell  upon  their  country's  heights — 
The  ransom,  to  redeem  a  nation's  rights. 

Weep,  freemen,  in  your  sadness ! 
When  despots  strewed  your  mother  earth  with  dead, 

His  young  heart  beat  with  gladness, 
To  seek  for  honour  on  the  warrior's  bed: 
A  name,  or  else  a  grave^.     He  left  the  crowd 
At  Freedom's  call,  for  glory  or  a  shroud  ! 

France  !  thou  hast  cause  for  wo, — 
Thy  brave  will  weep — thy  good  cannot  forget; 

His  like  ye  ne'er  shall  know. 
The  chief  among  thy  chief — thy  sun  hath  set; 
But  there  is  resurrection — even  his  bones 
Shall  shake  all  Europe's  kings  and  mouldering  thrones ! 

Weep  when  thy  thought  returns 
To  the  dark  era  of  thy  bloody  hour; 

And  if  thy  bosom  burns 
That  cannibals  did  riot  in  thy  power, 
Think  of  thy  chief,  betrayed  .by  heartless  men — 
Weep  for  thy  chief,  in  Olmutz'  midnight  den! 

Smile,  that  his  soul  was  true, 
Unquailing,  and  unquenched  before  his  foes — 

The  foes  of  Freedom,  too  ! 

'Twas  well — that  hour  a  radiance  round  him  throws, 
No  sceptered  monarch  ever  yet  obtained — 
A  martyr's  wreath!  and  nobly  was  it  gained. 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  363 

The  great  may  not  be  good — 
The  truly  good  are  great;  thy  honour'd  just, 

Pent  in  his  solitude, 

And  chain1  d  to  earth,  was  greater  with  his  crust, 
Crown'd  with  the  fame  his  youth  and  valor  won, 
Than  Charlemagne  upon  the  Roman's  throne. 

He  was  the  chosen  friend 
Of  him  who  foremost  stood  upon  the  earth, 

A  new  world  to  defend-- 
Whose  spirit  gave  confederate  nations  birth: 
His  name  is  written  on  each  heart — his  grave 
Looks  out  obscurely  on  Potomac's  wave. 

Sarmatia,  where's  thy  power  ? 
Now  fallen  is  >  the  mighty — he  who  stood 

Thy  champion,  in  the  hour 
When  the  fierce  tiger  re  veil' d  in  thy  blood. 
The  Autocrat  denied  thy  children  graves — 
Where  are  thy  chosen?  in  Siberia's  caves  t 

Pulaski  fell  in  fight — 
De  Kalb,  in  leading  freemen  to  the  shock  ! 

Sublime,  yet  fearful  sight, 
When  nations  meet,  as  ocean  strikes  the  rock ! 
The  spangled  banner  waved  above  the.  brave; 
It  was  the  death  ye  sought — a  freeman's  grave  ! 

Sleep  on,  and  take  your  rest — 
Oblivion  cannot  wrap  your  deeds  in  night, 

Upon  our  hearts  imprest ! 

Time's  rolling  years  shall  hallow  them  in  light. 
Farewell!  for  ever — Kosciusko  sleeps: 
The  last  is  fallen  now,  for  whom  an  empire  weeps  ! 


364  THE    PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 


BY  W.  H.  DAVIDSON. 


As  a  true  Philadelphia!!,  strongly  attached  to  my  na 
tive  city,  and  jealous  of  her  reputation,  I  have  often  felt 
mortified  on  hearing  remarks  made  in  disparagement  of 
her  hospitality  and  friendliness  towards  strangers.  If  it 
be  so,  that  the  inhabitants  of  this  metropolis  are  really 
wanting  in  attention  to  a  virtue  so  amiable  as  hospitality, 
it  is  time  that  a  reformation  should  take  place;  and  every 
one  who  has  the  spirit  of  brotherly  love  in  his  breast,  or 
who  desires  to  promote  improvement  in  all  that  is  "  love 
ly  and  of  good  report,"  should  make  it  his  endeavour  to 
contribute  to  the  attainment  of  a  better  character  in  this 
respect. 

It  does  not  become  us,  when  we  are  censured  for  cold 
ness  towards  strangers,  to  be  affronted,  and  hasty  in 
denying  the  charge;  but  rather  to  enquire  how  far  we  are 
justly  liable  to  blame,  and  by  what  means  our  manners 
may  be  amended.  That  the  inhabitants  of  Philadelphia 
possess  the  qualities  essential  to  friendship  and  genuine 
civility,  has  not  been  questioned  by  any  who  have  fre 
quented  our  city  ;  on  the  contrary,  the  substantial  vir 
tues  of  our  citizens  have  been  much  eulogised.  Stran 
gers,  however,  have  complained  of  a  certain  reserve  of 
manner  and  formality  in  our  conduct  to  them,  at  least 
upon  first  acquaintance;  and  it  has  been  frequently  said 
that  our  sister  cities  are  not  liable  to  this  imputation.  At 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  365 

the  same  time,  it  is  well  known  that  such  as  have  brought 
respectable  letters  of  introduction,  have  met  with  a  re 
ception  highly  gratifying  to  them,  and  I  heard  an  obser 
vation  made  which  deserves  to  be  considered  ;  that  the 
civilities  of  Philadelphians,  are  not  diminished  in  propor 
tion  to  the  length  of  a  stranger's  visit,  as  has  sometimes 
been  the  case  in  places  where  there  is  greater  prompti 
tude  in  offering  a  welcome.  It  is  true,  that  we  are  not 
in  the  habit  of  making  extraordinary  professions  of  de 
light  on  a  first  interview,  and  that  the  people  of  this  city 
are  cautious  in  their  intercourse  with  persons  whom 
they  do  not  know  to  be  worthy  of  regard;  we  can  easily 
imagine  what  effect  upon  the  mind  of  a  stranger  must 
be  produced  by  any  excessive  reserve  resulting  from  this 
prudence  of  disposition.  Frank  and  easy  manners  are 
very  prepossessing,  and  leave  a  pleasing  impression  on 
one  who  comes  to  day  and  departs  to-morrow;  a  better 
acquaintance  might,  in  some  instances,  dispel  the  illusion 
produced  by  mere  outward  politeness,  but  there  are  com 
paratively  few  who  remain  long  enough  to  gain  such  ex 
perience. 

While  it  is  admitted  then,  that  Philadelphians  are 
somewhat  too  deliberate  in  their  manner  of  showing 
civilities  to  newly  arrived  guests,  it  is  not  intended  to 
plead  guilty  to  any  charge  of  unsociableness  of  temper. 
In  order  to  form  a  just  estimate  of  the  social  qualities  of 
any  people,  it  is  necessary  to  consider  other  traits  in 
their  character,  and  the  circumstances  of  their  situation. 
The  inhabitants  of  this  city  are  a  considerate  and  prudent 
race,  generally  and  comparatively  speaking.  They  are 
not  easily  agitated  or  thrown  into  a  bustle,  but  pursue  the 
even  tenor  of  their  way  in  quietness  and  sobriety. 
They  are  diligent  in  the  transaction  of  their  private  or 
public  business,  and  generally  every  one  has  some  regu- 

31* 


366  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

lar  occupation;  steady  in  their  attachments;  and  the  in 
tercourse  of  relatives,  friends  and  acquaintances,  gives 
scope  to  the  exercise  of  their  social  feelings.  Punctual 
ity  in  fulfilling  their  engagements,  and  integrity  in  their 
dealings  are  their  recommendations  to  those  whom  com 
mercial  pursuits  bring  hither  ;  and  it  is  not  their  practice 
to  entertain  with  feasts  which  the  guest  may  afterwards 
find  to  have  been  at  his  expense.  When  hospitable  at 
tentions  are  offered  they  are  the  manifestation  of  a  sin 
cere  spirit  of  good  will,  or  of  a  sense  of  obligation  to 
practise  kindness  and  urbanity. 

Residents  in  the  country,  and  particularly  those  who 
live  on  plantations  in  southern  states,  are  apt  to  think 
citizens  inhospitable,  because  of  the  difference  in  their 
manners.  Let  them  consider  for  a  moment,  that  people 
living  in  secluded  situations,  are  glad  on  their  own  ac 
count,  to  receive  the  traveller  and  entertain  him  in  their 
mansions,  but  the  same  motive  cannot  have  influence  in 
a  populous  city,  where  society  of  any  description  is  al 
ways  to  be  found  with  little  seeking.  Besides  this,  our 
country  friends  have  so  much  more  leisure,  that  they  are 
not  under  any  necessity  of  making  a  sacrifice  of  time, 
and  they  are  not  compelled  by  style  of  living  to  take  any 
unusual  pains  in  the  entertainment  of  guests. 

It  is  probable,  that  the  principal  cause  of  the  apparent 
reserve  of  our  townsfolk,  is  an  over  nicety  about  the 
manner  of  entertaining  strangers.  Many  seem  to  think 
they  must  do  things  in  a  certain  style,  and  that  a  formal 
visit,  followed  by  an  invitation  to  an  elaborate  dinner,  is 
the  only  admissible  mode  of  commencing  their  inter 
course  with  a  person  whom  they  have  never  before  seen. 
Were  such  people  to  spend  a  few  months  in  a  foreign 
land,  they  would  learn  how  much  more  grateful  to  the 
feelings  of  a  stranger,  are  little  kindnesses  that  flow  from 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  367 

an  open  heart,  than  all  the  ceremonious  politeness  that 
can  be  exhibited.  When  there  is  a  genuine  disposition 
to  be  friendjy,  to  do  as  we  would  be  done  by  in  similar 
circumstances,  it  would  be  best  evidenced  by  endeavours 
to  make  visiters  feel  at  home  among  us.  It  is  a  great 
mistake  to  suppose,  that  hospitality  consists  in  giving 
sumptuous  feasts  and  making  formal  calls. 

Philadelphians  have  been  spoken  of  sometimes,  as  being 
too  cautious  and  particular,  in  requiring  letters  of  intro 
duction  or  some  other  evidence  of  a  stranger's  respecta 
bility,  before  they  will  admit  him  to  their  circle  of  ac 
quaintance.  I  do  not  know  that  there  is  any  ground 
for  imputing  to  us  an  excess  in  this  prudence.  It  has 
been  of  service  in  preventing  pseudo-barons  and  knavish 
adventurers  from  imposing  upon  us,  to  the  extent  they 
have  done  in  some  other  quarters  ;  and  as  long  as  impos 
tors  exist,  it  will  be  proper  and  right  to  inquire,  who  a 
man  is,  before  we  give  him  admission  into  our  families. 
Is  it  reasonable  for  any  body  to  expect,  that  in  a  large 
city,  resorted  to  by  individuals  of  all  characters,  hospi 
tality  will  be  spontaneously  tendered  to  one  whose  per 
sonal  appearance  is  the  only  credential  of  respectability 
which  he  presents  ! 

If  those  who  visit  us  have  sometimes  just  cause  of 
complaint,  have  not  we  also,  often  reason  to  complain  of 
the  conduct  of  strangers  to  us  ?  How  often  has  it  hap 
pened  that  a  letter  of  introduction  has  been  presented 
some  weeks  after  the  bearer's  arrival ;  and  perhaps  the 
very  persons  who  behave  thus,  cast  reflections  upon 
our  city.  How  often  have  visits  to  take  leave,  been  the 
the  first  intimation  received  of  a  stranger's  presence.  I 
have  known  several  instances  of  such  unsociableness  that 
were  sufficiently  provoking.  This  too  is  a  subject  for 
reformation. 


368  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 


BY  DAVID  P.  BROWN. 

LET  doctors,  or  quacks,  prescribe  as  they  may, 

Yet  none  of  their  nostrums  for  me  ; 
For  I  firmly  believe — what  the  old  women  say — 

That  there's  nothing  like  chamomile  tea. 

It  strengthens  the  mind,  it  enlivens  the  brain, 

It  converts  all  our  sorrow  to  glee ; 
It  heightens  our  pleasures,  it  banishes  pain — 

Then  what  is  like  chamomile  tea  ? 

In  health  it  is  harmless — and,  say  what  you  please, 

One  thing  is  still  certain  with  me, 
It  suits  equally  well  with  every  disease ; 

O,  there's  nothing  like  chamomile  tea. 

In  colds  or  consumptions,  I  pledge  you  my  word, 
Or  in  chills,  or  in  fevers,  d'ye  ye  see, 

There's  nothing  such  speedy  relief  will  afford, 
As  a  dose  of  good  chamomile  tea. 

Your  famed  panacea,  spiced  rhubarb  and  stuff, 

Which  daily  and  hourly  we  see, 
Crack'd  up  for  all  cures,  in  some  newspaper  puff, 

Can't  be  puff 'd  into  chamomile  tea. 

The  cancer  and  colic,  the  scurvy  and  gout, 
The  blues,  and  all  evils  d' esprit, 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  30OK.  369 

When  once  fairly  lodged,  can  be  only  forced  out, 
By  forcing  in  chamomile  tea. 

You  all  know  the  story  how  Thetis's  son 

Was  dipp'd  to  his  heel  in  the  sea ; 
The  sea's  all  a  farce — for  the  way  it  was  done, 

He  was  harden'd  by  chamomile  tea. 

Or,  if  dipp'd  in  the  Styx,  as  others  avow, 

Which  I  also  deny,  by  the  powers — 
The  Styx,  it  is  plain,  must  in  some  way  or  how, 

Have  been  bank'd  up  with  chamomile  flowers. 

When  sentenced  to  die,  foolish  Clarence  they  say, 

Met  his  fate  in  a  butt  of  Malmsey  : 
He'd  have  foiled  the  crook'd  tyrant,  and  lived  to  this  day, 

Had  he  plunged  into  chamomile  tea. 

Let  misses  and  madams,  in  tea-table  chat, 

Sip  their  hyson  and  sprightly  bohea ; 
It  may  fit  them  for  scandal,  or  such  things  as  that, 

But  it's  nothing  like  chamomile  tea. 

Let  tipplers  and  spendthrifts  to  taverns  resort, 

And  be  soak'd  in  their  cups  cap-a-pie ; 
Their  champaign  and  tokay,  their  claret  and  port, 

Are  poison  to  chamomile  tea. 

Why,  the  nectar  the  gods  and  their  goddesses  quaff, 

In  potations  convivial  and  free, 
Though  Homer  mistakes  it — nay,  pray  do  not  laugh, 

I  suspect  it  was  chamomile  tea. 

Then  fill  up  your  goblets,  and  round  let  them  pass, 
WThile  the  moments  and  hours  they  flee  ; 

And  let  each  gallant  youth  pledge  his  favourite  lass, 
In  a  bumper — of  chamomile  tea. 


370  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 


insm 

BY  JOSEPH  R.  CHANDLER.  * 

IT  was  an  afternoon  in  the  month  of  June  I  had  left 
the  city,  and  had  approached  the  country  as  far  as  the 
House  of  Refuge,  in  Francis'  fene. — Opposite  the  build 
ing,  is  a  burying  ground.  Some  one  had  "  set  before  me 
an  open  door;"  and  I  entered  the  silent  but  instructive 
mansion  of  the  dead,  to  meditate  among  the  tombs,  and 
familiarise  myself  with  scenes  in  which  all  must  become 
unconscious  participants. 

I  looked  around — the  green  carpeted  earth  and  swell 
ing  herbage  told  of  life;  but  of  a  life  that  depended  on 
seasons  and  their  incidents;  and  in  a  few  months  at  best, 
the  breath  of  the  North  would  sweep  away  their  glories, 
and  desolation  would  take  the  place  of  their  beauties. 
These  things  told  of  death  in  the  vegetable  world.  The 
hillock  by  which  I  stood,  was  a  memento  of  what  had 
been;  while  the  stifled  cough,  and  the  face  that  disease 
had  blanched  white  as  the  monumental  stones  among 
which  it  was,  told  plainly  what  was  to  be  in  the  animal 
creation.  We  inhale  death  with  the  first  inspiration  of 
life,  and  all  our  marchings  are  in  the  downward  path  to 
the  tomb,  from  whose  open  door  the  hand  of  death  conti 
nually  beckons  the  contemplative,  while  pleasure  smooths 
down  the  track  for  the  thoughtless  and  the  gay. 

Hillock  after  hillock  told  of  the  long  abiding  place  of 
beings,  who  had  once  gone  forth  among  their  fellows  in 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  371 

the  pride  of  health  and  the  boast  of  friendship.  Their  agile 
limbs  had  stiffened;  the  manly  sinews  had  shrunk;  the 
bright  eye  had  become  dim;  beauty  and  strength  had  de 
parted,  and  those  who  had  once  loved  them,  had  hastened 
to  bury  the  dead  out  of  their  sight.  They  had  heaped 
up  the  earth,  and  erected  stones  in  memorial  of  life — per 
haps  of  virtue  and  of  friendship;  but  the  earth  was  gather 
ing  back  its  imparted  dust;  and  that  which  had  once  stood 
out  upon  earth,  and  talked  ofjife,  and  rights,  and  liberty 
— which  had  claimed  affinity  with  spirit,  and  had  mea 
sured  the  path  of  the  sun — "  numbered  the  stars,  and 
called  them  all  by  name;"  had  passed  away  from  such 
eminences,  shrunk  into  the  narrow  grave,  and  was  be 
coming  one  with  the  parts,  and  with  the  fellow  occupants, 
of  its  long  home. 

Stepping  up  upon  one  of  the  newly  sodded  graves,  I 
leaned  over  the  headstone  to  contemplate  the  scenery, 
and  thereby  mellow  the  feelings  into  that  melancholy 
richness  that  constitutes  the  enjoyment  of  those  whose 
afflictions  have  not  indurated  their  affections.  It  is  good 
for  the  dying  to  stand  up  among  the  dead,  and  discourse 
of  death;  it  is  profitable,  among  the  wasted  glasses  of  life? 
to  court  the  few  remaining  sands  that  are  running  for 
us,  and  think  how  soon,  and  for  what,  the  wheel  will  be 
broken  at  the  cistern — and  why  it  yet  turns.  The  heart 
beats — the  breast  dilates,  and  the  limbs  move,  these  are 
the  machineries  of  life — does  their  busy  function  keep 
alive  that  spirit  which  is  only  found  where  those  functions 
are?  or  does  the  spirit — that  unseen  portion — give  motion 
and  activity  to  the  frame.  Is  one  the  effect  of  an  inde 
pendent  cause,  or  are  both  dependent.  If  the  latter,  on 
what  a  store  house  do  we  stand ! — the  depository  of  price 
less  wealth,  that  shall  not  leave  its  treasury. 

Where  is  the  Token  of  the  Promise,  that  the  Slum- 


372  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

bers  of  the  grave  shall  be  broken;  or  where  is  the  Sign 
that  the  sleepers  shall  awake! 

The  whole  heaven  was  darkened;  and  in  the  east  espe 
cially  a  black,  dense  cloud,  which  had  passed  round  from 
the  south  rested  upon  the  horizon,  like  the  pall  of  the 
departed  day.  All  was  hushed — the  gloomy  doubts  that 
had  pressed  upon  my  mind  seemed  to  have  hung  also 
a  gloom  upon  the  earth  and  the  heavens.  Just  then  the 
clouds  of  the  west  broke  away,  and  the  sun,  sinking  into 
night,  threw  his  parting  beams  upon  the  earth — the  bril 
liant  cross  of  Saint  Augustine's  church  caught  the  rays, 
and  flashed  out  its  glories  upon  the  dark  clouds  that  rested 
in  the  east;  while  above  its  emblematic  radiations,  shone 
a  brilliant  Rainbow,  spangling  the  whole  horizon  with 
its  liquid  hues. 

While  wrapt  in  awe  at  the  scene  before  me  I  gazed  in 
admiration — was  it  imagination,  or  did  the  voice  that 
instructed  my  infancy,  now  breathe  along  the  evening 
breeze,  the  monition — "  Behold  the  Token  of  the  Pro 
mise,  that  the  slumbers  of  the  grave  shall  be  broken; 
and  the  Sign  that  the  sleepers  shall  awake. 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  373 


BY  WILLIAM  D.  BAKER. 

The  setting  sun  sinks  gently  now 

Behind  yon  western  hill — 

Dejection  sits  upon  my  brow 

Sad  thoughts  my  bosom  fill. 

The  past  all  joyous  seems,  and  gay — 

The  future  sad  and  dreary — 

I  would  not  die — the  thought  away  ! 

And  yet  of  life  I'm  weary. 

A  pilgrim  lone  I've  wander'd  through 

The  busy  haunts  of  men, 

Unknowing  all,  me  no  one  knew; 

I  mov'd  not  in  their  ken. 

For  there  are  men  who  wear  a  smile 

As  murderers  wear  a  mask, 

And  there  are  those  who  kiss  you,  while 

Their  hands  foul  weapons  grasp  ! 

Oh!  I  would  sooner  walk  alone 
In  humble  paths,  unseen — 
Than  be  the  incumbent  of  a  throne 
Where  flatterers  e'er  have  been. 
Give  me  to  know  my  certain  fate, 
Though  dreadful  it  may  be, 
Then  death  may  early  come,  or  late, 
Sweet  messenger  to  me  ! 
32 


374  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

The  tiny  insect  buzzing  round — 

Rej  oices — disappears — 

And  man,  poor  man  is  only  found 

Ling' ring  through  three  score  years. 

And  he,  he  only  has  the  power 

To  rush  from  life  unbidden, 

When  keen  misfortune  bids  him  cower — 

His  heart  by  woe  is  ridden  ! 

Our  life  is  but  one  scene  of  ill — 
Some  power  its  chains  throws  o'er  us, 
We're  creatures  of  another's  will 
Until  our  graves  close  o'er  us — 
And  then  we're  usher' d — tell  us  where  ! 
That  knowledge  could  we  gain — 
Earth's  bitterest  curses  we  might  bear 
And  grieve,  tho'  not  complain  ! 


1 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  375 


BY  J.  G.  FISHER. 


THE  cultivation  of  poetry  seems,  at  least  in  the  Bri 
tish  race,  the  strongest  evidence  of  refinement.  Among 
them,  it  was  not  the  growth  of  a  barbarous  age,  and  it  • 
never  was  the  pleasure  of  the  humble.  To  discover, 
therefore,  amongst  our  colonists  a  taste  for  poetry,  will 
do  much  to  vindicate  their  claim  to  literary  advancement 
and  intellectual  refinement.  That  this  taste  existed,  is 
to  be  proved,  not  so  much  by  adducing  one  or  two  bril 
liant  displays  of  genius,  as  by  naming  numerous  and  suc 
cessive  efforts,  which,  although  only  partially  successful 
in  their  day,  and  altogether  unworthy  at  the  present  of, 
our  admiration,  establish  nevertheless  the  fact  of  the  con 
stant  cultivation  of  the  art  ;  and  assure  us  that  the  best 
poetry  of  England  was  sought  for,  read,  admired,  and 
imitated,  not  only  frequently,  but  constantly  by  men  who 
have  been  stigmatised  as  unpolished,  illiterate,  and  rude. 

The  first  twenty  years  of  our  colonial  history  produ 
ced,  it  is  probable,  but  little  poetry  —  nothing  which  de 
serves  the  name  has  descended  to  us.  The  exalted  and 
cultivated  minds  of  some  of  the  first  settlers  were  no 
doubt  often  possessed  with  sublime  imaginations,  inspired 
by  the  native  grandeur  of  the  wilderness  ;  or,  when  re 
collecting  the  beautiful  homes  of  their  youth,  were  fill 
ed  with  tender  emotions  nearly  allied  to  poetry  —  but 
their  duties  were  imperious,  the  hours  spared  from  pri- 


376  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

vate  labour  were  engrossed  by  public  affairs  ;  and,  while 
we  thank  them  for  the  institutions  they  have  established, 
we  must  regret  that  little  remains  of  theirs  but  an  ho 
nourable  name. 

But  the  second  generation,  relieved  from  the  toils  of 
settlement  in  the  forest — reposing  under  liberal  establish 
ments  and  laws  framed  by  the  enlightened  wisdom  of 
the  founder  and  his  companions — and  reaping  plenty 
from  "rich  and  beautiful  fields  cleared  by  the  labour  of 
their  fathers — first,  turned  their  eyes  to  Heaven  in  thank 
fulness,  and  then  to  Parnassus  for  inspiration  to  celebrate 
the  beauty  and  delights  of  their  happy  country.  Al 
though  it  cannot  be  denied,  that  the  tuneful  inhabitants 
of  that  sacred  hill  rarely  descended  into  the  green  val 
leys  of  our  province,  or  that 

erubuit  sylvas  habitare  Thalia 

still  their  smiles  were  not  altogether  withheld  from  their 
rustic  votaries,  and  this  was  quite  encouragement  enough. 
During  the  early  part  of  the  18th  century,  several  poets 
nourished  in  Pennsylvania,  whose  lines  merited  the  ap 
probation  of  their  cotemporaries.  Few  of  these  produc 
tions  are  now  to  be  discovered,  and  those  which  are  found 
in  print  were,  it  is  probable,  by  no  means  the  best.  We 
must  look  for  them  in  the  Almanacs — a  strange  place  to 
seek  for  poetry — but  at  that  early  day  they  were  the 
only  publications  to  which  rhymes  could  obtain  admit 
tance  ;  and  certainly  never  .since  have  Almanacs  been 
embellished  with  better  verses.  They  are  for  the  most 
paft  greatly  deficient  in  poetic  graces,  but  some  of  them 
may  certainly  with  justice  be  commended  for  sprightli- 
ness  and  ease. 

The  want  of  a  periodical  sheet  was  felt  by  those  mo- 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  377 

dest  geniuses,  who,  not  confident  of  the  intrinsic  merit  of 
their  pieces,  would  have  been  happy  to  trust  to  the  gen 
erosity  of  the  public  an  unfathered  offspring,  which 
might  not  obtain  favour  for  an  acknowledged  author. 
The  invitations  of  the  editors  of  our  two  earliest  news 
papers  were  eagerly  accepted  by  a  score  of  nameless  sons 
of  Apollo.  Scarcely  a  week  passed  that  some  new  at 
tempt  at  rhyming  was  not  made  ;  or,  to  speak  more  ap 
propriately,  that  our  ancestors  did  not  hear  some  young 
Orpheus  beginning  to  take  lessons  on  the  lyre.  These 
first  strains  certainly  were  not  always  melodious.  The 
first  poetry  of  Pennsylvania  may  generally  be  characteri 
sed  as  inelegant,  unharmonious  and  spiritless  ;  yet,  there 
were  several  brilliant  exceptions,  whirh  surprise  us  by 
their  sweetness  and  vivacity,  and  were  beyond  a  doubt 
the  productions  of  cultivated  and  refined  minds.  There 
are  many  verses  which  would  not  discredit  any  English 
author  of  the  last  century,  and  still  may  be  read  with 
pleasure ;  and  although,  perhaps,  they  have  not  enough 
of  originality  or  brilliancy  to  deserve  a  reproduction  in 
an  age  overstocked  with  all  the  lighter  kinds  of  litera 
ture,  may  certainly  be  noticed  with  satisfaction,  and  re 
ferred  to  with  pride. 


37S  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 


A  ©  ©  SST  IT  HI  &  §  ^  0 

BY  W.  G.  CLARK. 

IT  was  the  morning  of  a  day  in  spring — 
The  sun  looked  gladness  from  the  eastern  sky; 
Birds  upon  the  trees  and  on  the  wing, 
And  all  the  air  was  rich  with  melody; 
The  heaven — the  calm,  pure  heaven,  was  bright  on  high; 
Earth  laugh'd  beneath  in  all  its  fresh'ning  green, 
The  free  blue  streams  sang  as  they  wandered  by, 
And  many  a  sunny  glade  and  flowery  scene 
Gleam'd  out,  like  thoughts  of  youth,  life's  troubled  years  be 
tween. 

The  rose's  breath  upon  the  south  wind  came — 
Oft  as  its  whisperings  the  young  branches  stirr'd, 
And  flowers  for  which  the  poet  has  no  name; 
While,  midst  the  blossoms  of  the  grove,  were  heard 
The  restless  murmurs  of  the  humming-bird: 
Waters  were  dancing  in  the  mellow  light; 
And  joyous  notes  and  many  a  cheerful  word 
Stole  on  the  charmed  ear  with  such  delight 
As  waits  on  soft  sweet  tones  of  music  heard  at  night. 

The  night-dews  lay  in  the  half  open'd  flower, 
Like  hopes  that  nestle  in  the  youthful  breast; 
And  ruffled  by  the  light  airs  of  the  hour, 
Awoke  the  pure  lake  from  its  glassy  rest: 
Slow  blending  with  the  blue  and  distant  west, 


THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK.  379 

Lay  the  dim  woodlands,  and  the  quiet  gleam 
Of  amber  clouds,  like  islands  of  the  blest — 
Glorious  and  bright,  and  changing  like  a  dream, 
And  lessening  fast  away  beneath  the  intenser  beam. 

Songs  were  amid  the  mountains  far  and  wide — 
Songs  were  upon  the  green  slopes  blooming  nigh: 
While,  from  the  springing  flowers  on  every  side, 
Upon  his  painted  wings,  the  butterfly 
Roamed,  a  sweet  blossom  of  the  sunny  sky; 
T^he  visible  smile  of  joy  was  on  the  scene; 
'Twas  a  bright  vision,  but  too  soon  to  die  ! 
Spring  may  not  linger  in  her  robes  of  green — 
Autumn,  in  storm  and  shade  shall  quench  the  summer  sheen. 

I  came  again.     'Twas  Autumn's  stormy  hour — 
The  wild  winds  murmured  in  the  faded  wood; 
The  sere  leaves,  rustling  in  the  yellow  bower, 
Were  hurled  in  eddies  to  the  moaning  flood: 
Dark  clouds  enthrall'd  the  west — an  orb  of  blood, 
The  red  sun  pierced  the  hazy  atmosphere; 
While  torrent  voices  broke  the  solitude, 
Where,  straying  lonely,  as  with  steps  of  fear, 
I  mark'd  the  deepening  gloom  which  shrouds  the  dying  year. 

The  ruffled  lake  heav'd  wildly — near  the  shore 
It  bore  the  red  leaves  of  the  shaken  tree — 
Shed  in  the  violent  north  wind's  restless  roar, 
Emblems  of  man  upon  life's  stormy  sea  ! 
Pale  autumn  leaves  !  once  to  the  breezes  free 
They  waved  in  Spring  and  Summer's  golden  prime — 
Now,  even  as  clouds  or  dew,  how  fast  they  flee — 
Weak,  changing  like  the  flowers  in  Autumn's  clime, 
As  man  sinks  down  in  death,  chilled  by  the  touch  of  time  ! 


380  THE  PHILADELPHIA  BOOK. 

I  marked  the  picture — 'twas  the  changeful  scene 
Which  life  holds  up  to  the  observant  eye: 
Youth's  spring,  and  summer,  and  its  bowers  of  green, 
The  streaming  sunlight  of  its  morning  sky, 
And  the  dark  clouds  of  death  which  linger  by: 
For  oft,  when  life  is  fresh  and  hope  is  strong, 
Shall  early  sorrow  breathe  the  unbidden  sigh, 
While  age  to  death  moves  peacefully  along, 
As  on  the  singer's  lip  expires  the  finished  song. 


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